The 

Torch  of  Reason 

Or 

Humanity's  God 


The  Torch  of  Reason 

Cloth  bound,  12  illustrations,  per  copy,  $1.00 

By  mail  or  Express,  $1.20 


January,  1912 

The  Torch  of  Reason,  Publishers 

3944  Spring  Grove  Avenue 
Cincinnati,  Ohio 


COPYRIGHT,  1910  AND  1911, 
FOR  THE  AUTHOR. 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 
BY  FREDERICK  FORREST  BERRY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1912, 
BY  FREDERICK  FORREST  BERRY. 


All   rights  reserved  and   fully  protected  by   law,   including 
foreign  translations,  picture  rights,  and  play  rights,  by  author. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.      WOLVES     1 

II.    THE  TALE  OF  AN  UNTOLD  LOVE 24 

III.  THE  EVER  PRESENT  MENACE 60 

IV.  THE  LAST  LEAF  100 

V.     THE  SON  OF  JASON  SANDS 144 

VI.    REASON  AND  A  STONE 188 

VII.    MIND  THE  MASTER 232 

VIII.    THE  JUVENILE  DEMOCRACY 270 

IX.    FOUR  YEARS  AROUND  THE  WORLD 314 

X.     THE  RAWHIDE  THONG 343 

XI.  THE  SURRENDER  OF  THE  FROST  KING  . .  .  388 

XII.  NOT  EVEN  IN  THE  GRAVE.  .                  .  441 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


CHAPTER   I. 

"A  Giant  Shadow,  Bended  with  the  Weight  of 
an  Eighty  Pound  Pack,  Stopped  in  the 
Snow  and  Listened ! " 1 

' '  For  Each  Pair  of  Leaping,  Snapping  Jaws  that 

Came,  He  Sent  Back  a  Dead  Wolf" 20 

CHAPTER   II. 

"And  When  a  Second  Later  the  Little  Savage 
Carbine  'Spank — Spank — Spanked'  Into  the 
Frosty  Aphony,  it  Spit  out  the  Lives  of 
Three*  Great  Husky  Timber  Wolves" 28 

CHAPTER   III. 

"To  All  but  Jason  Sands  the  Trip  Down  the 
Wild  Yukon  was  a  Delightful  and  Romantic 
Caprice" 84 

CHAPTER   IV. 
"He  Gazed  Reverently  Upon  the  Two  Faces". .  .   114 

CHAPTER    V. 

"The  Bawd-attired  Mistress  of  a  Screw-tailed 
Terrier  Fed  that  $10,000  Beast  Sponge-cake 
and  Cream  from  Her  Own  Plate" 184 

CHAPTER   VI. 

"Swish!  The  Whip  Cut  the  Air.  The  Bully 
Came  To  Four  Hours  Later  in  the  Hos- 
pital"    230 

V 


vi  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"He  Found  the  Histories — So-called — Simply 
the  Printed  Accounts  of  Bloody  Deeds  of 
War  Heroes!" 242 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

"An  Exquisitely  Beautiful  Young  Girl  in 
Robin 's-egg  Blue  and  with  Corn-silk  Blond 
Hair,  Advanced  and  Pinned  a  Luscious  Red 
Rose  on  the  Lapel  of  His  Son's  Coat,  and 
the  Crowd  Went  Wild!" 280 

CHAPTER   IX. 

"At  Full   Speed  Straight  Into  a  Mountain  of 

Ice!" 342 

CHAPTER  X. 

"You  May  Take  Your  Gold-plated  Religion  and 
Go — to — Hell!  I'm  A-goin'  Home  and  I 
Ain't  A-comin'  Back!" 378 

CHAPTER   XII. 

' '  And  Where  the  Frog-pond  Chorus  Rose  Dream- 
ily O'er  the  Sweet-scented  Woodland  as  it 
Had  Done  for  Erma  and  Jason  in  the  Days 
of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  She  Said,  'Yes,  Dear 
One,'  When  He  Whispered,  'Ray'  " 476 


" Verily,  What  Prof iteth  It?" 

*  Where  this  asterisk  (*)  appears,  preceding  a 
paragraph  in  the  llth  chapter  of  this  story,  it  indi- 
cates that  the  entire  paragraph  so  marked  is  one  of 
several  whole  paragraphs  arbitrarily  striken  out  of 
the  magazine  serial,  without  the  author's  knowledge 
or  permission,  and  subsequent  to  his  having  read 
and  edited  the  galley  proofs.  These  paragraphs,  to- 
gether with  all  the  other  parts  censored  and  omitted,, 
incorrectly  printed  and  otherwise  mutilated  and 
discredited,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  revise, 
correct  and  incorporate  in  this  book.  Herein  you 
will  find  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON  as  originally  written 
and  edited  by  myself,  including  both  verse  and 
prose  composition. 

F.  F.  BERRY. 


vii 


"I  Will  Be  True." 

Were  I  to  let  this  opportunity  pass  without  avail- 
ing myself  of  it  to  thank  those  faithful  comrades 
who  have  stood  staunchly  by  me  through  this  long, 
painful  travail,  I  would  be  an  ingrate  indeed. 

Had  those  for  whom  I  have  labored  proven  true 
to  their  trust  with  me  and  the  cause  that  shall  have 
my  life,  this  book  would  long  ago  have  been  printed 
and  read  by  thousands,  and  thousands  of  new  con- 
verts might  thereby  have  been  added  to  our  army 
of  peace  and  love.  But  I  forgive  my  enemies,  for 
they  are  the  product  of  the  System,  and  a  traitorous 
environment  having  turned  their  hearts  to  stone, 
they  are  more  to  be  pitied  than  censured,  and  they 
will  find  greater  punishment  than  I  could  wish  them, 
in  the  canker  of  their  own  cowardice  that  will  never 
cease  to  eat  into  their  poor  misguided  souls. 

Those  who  have  tried  to  help  THE  TORCH  OF 
REASON  are  many,  and  those  who  have  helped  are 
many  more.  The  army  is  increasing  and  will  rise 
like  an  ocean  tide  until  it  shall  prove  what  this 
book  foretells.  All  these  heroic  comrades  I  thank 
and  appreciate,  especially  do  I  wish  to  thank  my 
good  friend  and  comrade,  Peter  Herbert,  of  Cincin- 
nati, through  whose  unselfish  generosity  and  finan- 
cial backing  it  becomes  possible  for  me  to  bring  out 
this  volume.  After  all  others  had  failed  me,  Com- 
rade Herbert  stepped  into  the  gap  and  supplied  the 
cash  with  which  to  bring  out  the  first  edition. 

The  illustrations  in  this  book  were  created  for  the 
author  by  our  rising  young  artist,  Roy  Legault,  a 
graduate  of  the  G.  H.  Lockwood  School  of  Art,  Kala- 
mazoo,  Michigan.  Any  patronage  extended  to  this 
struggling  young  genius  will,  in  addition,  be  a  favor 
conferred  on  our  entire  movement.  His  address  is 
2073  East  Washington  St.,  Portland,  Oregon. 

F.  F.  B. 


Warning ! 

(It  is  our  plain  duty  to  push  this  book  and  to  do 
it  NOW  !  There  is  a  cloud  of  war's  red  hell  gather- 
ing over  this  fair  land.  It  is  not  too  late  to  dispel 
it — will  you  do  your  duty  ?  Will  you  sell  ONE  copy 
of  this  book?) 

We  warn  you  that  this  book  is  a  revelation.  It 
is  not  only  a  revelation,  but  it  is  a  revolution!  It  is 
an  iconoclast.  It  is  a  pillar  of  oasian  fire,  burning 
like  a  volcano  alone  in  a  desert  of  midnight  black- 

&  Every  sentence  is  a  meteor.  Every  paragraph 
is  a  meteoric  shower,  and  every  chapter  is  a  volume 
of  life  history,  throbbing  with  the  surcharge  of 
realism  and  truth. 

Many  books  have  gone  before;  but  this  book 
blazes  a  new  trail.  This  book  is  not  an  advocate 
of  the  paliatives  of  reform.  It  advocates,  not 
reform,  but  new  form.  There  are  no  soup-house 
mediatives  advocated  here.  The  "full  dinner-pail" 
and  "patched  pants"  philosophers  will  find  cloudy 
weather  in  the  perspective  of  this  literary  Vesuvius. 
The  war  fiend  and  battle  hero  will  crumple  up  and 
pale  before  the  continuous  cannonade  of  this  re- 
sistless intellectual  Krupp. 

Till  ess  you  are  prepared  for  shocks  don't  read 
this  terrific  book.  Unless  you  can  stand  a  jolt  take 
no  chances  with  its  logic.  If  you  are  bound  to  read 
only  what  the  race  has  been  fed  on  and  starved  on 
since  the  invention  of  fire,  turn  not  another  page, 
lest  you  violate  the  injunctions  of  the  dead  and 
desecrate  the  codes  and  screeds  of  a  civilization 


x  WARNING. 

which  nested  in  trees  and  caves.     If  you  read  this 
book  it  will  open  your  eyes. 

This  creative  volume  is  not  a  Billiken  of  "things 
as  they  are."  It  is  not  a  confirmation,  but  a 
repudiation!  It  follows  naught,  but  leads  all.  It  is 
a  god  of  things,  not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  ought 
to  be.  It  smashes  the  idols.  It  strikes  down  the 
Golden  Calf.  It  blasts  the  dollar  sign.  It  cauterizes 
the  guillotine  and  torture  chamber,  and  strikes  off 
the  fetters  of  superstition  and  fear. 

The  author  of  this  book  is  a  man.  If  you  admire 
a  coward  you  will  not  fall  in  love  with  him.  He 
has  dared  to  have  his  say.  He  has  had  the  courage 
to  stand  alone.  He  has  spoken  out  from  the  wilder- 
ness, and  his  voice  shall  be  heard  forsooth  from  the 
very  housetops.  He  has  placed  man  above  the 
dollar.  He  has  painted  from  life.  His  models  have 
lived  and  breathed  and  suffered  the  long  travail 
that  portends  the  birth  of  the  new  world  that  is  to 
be.  This  artist's  brush  is  a  flaming  torch,  and  his 
soul  is  a  fountain  of  love-fire — unquenchable  and 
«xhaustless. 

This  mighty  book  speaks  the  truth.  If  you  love 
a  lie  read  no  further.  If  you  prefer  your  chains  lay 
it  down  now.  If  you  are  satisfied  with  life  as  you 
see  it,  then  you  are  not  ready  for  THE  TORCH  OF 
REASON,  and  its  light  of  truth  would  only  blind  you. 
This  book  will  awaken  you  from  your  fanciful  dream 
of  Fairyland  to  a  realization  of  your  plain  duty  to 
your  fellow  men.  But  if  you  yearn  for  industrial 
freedom;  if  you  love  liberty;  if  you  crave  justice 
for  all  human  society,  then  read  this  wonderful  book 
and  arm  yourself  with  knowledge  and  reason  and 
fit  yourself  for  the  change  that  is  at  our  doors,  the 
change  that  shall  mean  peaice  and  love  and  joy  for 
all  mankind. 

THE    PUBLISHERS. 


Author's  Apology ! 

If  I  must  write  a  preface,  let  me  tell  a  story — a 
true  story.  Personally,  I  do  not  like  prefaces.  They 
remind  me  of  index  fingers  on  guide-boards,  and 
explanatory  footnotes  and  artists'  "keys,"  by 
means  of  which  is  supposed  to  be  conveyed  intelli- 
gence to  the  effect  that,  "this  be  a  hoss." 

So,  I  promise  to  write  this  foreword  and  I  trust 
you  will  agree  to  forgive  me,  not  for  what  I  have 
said  in  the  book,  but  for  what  I  am  going  to  say 
in  this  that  you  are  now  reading. 

I  remember  the  first  Fourth  of  July  I  ever 
"had."  It  was  away  back  there  on  the  dear  hills 
of  old  New  Hampshire  when  I  was  but  five  years 
old.  They  brought  me  home  from  the  village  a  toy 
pistol  that  cost  a  cent,  together  with  a  box  of  paper 
caps  which  cost  another  cent!  That  made  my  first 
Independence  celebration  cost  two  cents! 

Going  some  in  "patriotism,"  says  you — a  whole 
two  cents'  worth  for  a  whole  year!  But  in  those 
days  patriotism  was  cheap  and  enjoyed  by  all.  That 
was  before  "patriotism"  became  an  auxiliary  to  the 
trusts. 

I  never  forgot  that  Fourth  of  July  celebration. 
We  lived  many  miles  from  the  village,  and  when 
the  cannon  boomed  down  there,  I  would  fire  off  my 
pistol!  The  cannon  went  "boom,"  and  my  pistol 
went  "putt!" 


xii  AUTHOR'S  APOLOGY. 

I  have  that  «ent  pistol  still ;  and  whenever  I  want 
an  "inspiration,"  I  get  out  that  ancient  toy  grin 
and  think. 

You  may  not  believe  it,  but  that  little  cent  toy 
pistol  is  the  thing  which  inspired  me  to  write  this 
book. 

Maybe  I  didn't  feel  some  brave  when  I  answered 
that  cannon's  "boom"  with  my  little  "putt!"  But 
then,  I  was  only  a  boy,  and  you  must  forgive  me ! 

The  years  rolled  on.  I  grew  out  of  the  "putting" 
stage  and  then  I  became  a  Socialist.  One  day  I  was 
looking  at  that  little  toy  pistol,  all  rusty,  where  it 
had  once  been  painted  red,  and  no  longer  capable 
even  of  a  "putt,"  and  while  my  thoughts  were  sadly 
harking  back  over  the  painful  years  to  that  two-cent 
Fourth  of  July  celebration  of  the  long  ago,  I  re- 
solved to  take  a  shot  at  Capitalism,  the  historic  foe 
of  Humanity. 

This  time  it  was  my  determination  to  "boom" 
instead  of  "putting."  If  I  have  succeeded,  I  am 
sorry  that  I  made  no  greater  noise.  And  if  I  have 
"putted"  instead  of  "booming,"  I  regret  that  I  did 
not  use  a  Gattling-gun  or  a  thirteen-inch  cannon, 
both  of  which  will  shortly  be  used  on  us  unless  we 
wake  up  and  get  together  before  1914. 

There  are  both  "putters"  and  "boomers;"  and 
if  I  am  still  in  the  former  class,  I  apologize  for  not 
having  been  a  better  student  in  my  master's  school. 

If  my  shot  struck  home  and  wrung  a  pain,  I 
regret  that  it  did  not  kill.  If  I  have  rescued  one 
hapless  soul  from  the  bloody  claws  of  the  cruel 
Beast,  I  grieve  that  I  did  not  shoot  before.  My  aim 
was  at  Ignorance,  Superstition  and  Slavery;  have 


AUTHOR'S  APOLOGY.  xiii 

I  hit  one  of  these?  Then  I  beg  forgiveness  for  not 
having  killed  all  three. 

If  you,  my  brother  and  my  sister,  will  take  the 
trail  and  follow  the  Beast  by  the  blood  I  have  made 
him  spill ;  if  you  will  camp  on  his  trail  early  and  late 
trying  as  hard  to  run  him  down  as  I  have  tried  to 
get  this  shot  into  him,  I  will  load  up,  and  by  the 
time  you  run  him  around  this  way  again,  I  will  be 
ready  for  him  with  a  "dum-dum."  Keep  the  scent 
hot,  there  is  no  time  to  lose. 

I  have  given  you  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON,  but  I 
cannot  make  you  see.  I  am  one  of  you,  and  I  can 
look  ahead  of  you;  but  I  am  not  you.  You  must 
look  for  yourself.  I  can  call  to  you,  but  I  cannot 
make  you  come.  If  you  would  be  free  you  yourself 
must  strike  the  blow.  If  you  would  know  Justice, 
you  must  first  reason.  If  you  would  reason,  you 
must  first  think. 

If  none  had  ever  used  the  mental  processes  of 
reasoning  the  race  never  would  have  progressed  one 
inch  away  from  the  cave  and  the  tree  nest.  Green 
pastures  are  not  discovered  by  satisfied  cattle.  If 
no  man  had  ever  broken  a  law  to  obey  The  Law,  the 
workers  would  still  be  wearing  neck  yokes  and 
ankle  balls  under  booted  and  spurred  drivers  with 
"blacksnake"  and  pistol. 

Socialism  is  in  violation  of  law — the  law  of 
private  ownership  in  human  flesh.  Socialism  will 
break  that  law,  to  write  upon  the  books  in  its  stead 
the  law  of  social  ownership  of  the  earth.  Socialism 
will  break  the  law  which  legalizes  profit  from  human 
toil.  It  will  abrogate  the  instrument  of  legalized 
robbery  of  unearned  riches,  and  give  freedom  of 


xiv  AUTHOR'S  APOLOGY. 

possession  to  the  useful  worker  of  the  full  value  of 
his  hands'  creation. 

There  are  many  reasons  why  I  am  a  Socialist. 
First,  it  is  because  of  my  great  selfishness.  I  want 
to  be  happy.  Not  being  able  to  satisfy  this  selfish 
desire  under  the  present  arrangement,  and  knowing 
that  Socialism  means  perfect  selfishness,  I  naturally 
lean  toward  the  light  of  my  heart's  desire.  But  the 
selfishness  of  which  I  am  speaking  to-day  is  sure  to 
be  misunderstood.  I  realize  that  any  attempt  at 
an  explanation  of  this  greater  selfishness  at  this  time 
were  well  nigh  impossible  of  comprehension.  It  is 
only  the  "charity"  faker  who  parades  before 
the  footlights  bedecked  in  his  spangled  garb  of 
' '  unselfishness. ' ' 

In  a  world  of  riches  and  poverty,  great  may  be 
the  harpings  on  "greed  and  selfishness."  To  be 
perfectly  selfish  is  to  be  perfectly  happy.  To  be 
perfectly  happy  is  to  be  perfectly  well  pleased.  No 
real  sane  individual  may  be  perfectly  happy  in  a 
world  where  there  sorrows  one  unhappy  brother  or 
sister.  Possessed  I  all  the  wealth  in  the  world,  I 
would  still  be  the  most  unhappy  person  living;  for 
then  I  would  know  that  no  one  else  owned  anything, 
and  the  misery  of  their  poverty  would  destroy  all 
my  peace  of  mind.  But  were  it  possible  for  me  to 
know  that  every  human  creature  on  earth  smiled 
happily  and  secure  in  the  fullness  of  a  life  of  peace, 
plenty  and  love,  and  that  I  were  an  economic  equal 
in  the  enjoyment  of  the  same  opportunities  for  life's 
full  measure,  then  indeed  would  I  be  perfectly 
happy.  This,  then,  would  be  perfect  selfishness 
achieved. 


AUTHOR'S  APOLOGY.  xv 

For  ten  years  I  have  been  trying  to  think  of  the 
right  way  by  Which  to  reach  that  peculiar  intelli- 
gence which  refuses  an  audience  to  Truth.  There 
are  enough  good  and  scientific  books  on  Socialism 
to  convert  the  world  in  a  day ;  but  they  are,  for  the 
most  part,  dry  and  hard  to  read.  At  least,  they  are 
hard  to  get  read.  In  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON  I  have 
tried  to  come  to  the  rescue  of  the  prejudiced  mind. 
I  have  written  something  that  I  feel  will  be  read. 
It  was  my  aim  to  blaze  a  new  trail,  far  and  away 
from  the  beaten  paths  of  all  conventional  Socialistic 
propoganda. 

This  book  contains  a  warning  to  both  Socialists 
and  trade-unionists.  Also  I  have  dared  to  fill  the 
toil-wrung  heart  with  the  promise  of  a  better  time 
by  taking  the  reader  into  the  future — the  very  near 
future.  Dangers  have  been  pointed  out  wherever 
seen.  If  they  are  not  heeded  in  time,  pardon  me 
if  I  blame  you  for  the  crime  of  inertia,  for  my  duty 
is  well  begun  and  if  you  fail  to  use  the  weapon  I 
have  placed  in  your  hands,  I  am  willing  to  take  the 
judgment  with  a  clean  conscience  and  unafraid. 

In  giving  you  this  book  I  have  not  counted  the 
cost.  If  I  am  -criticised  unfavorably  I  shall  know 
that  I  have  trod  upon  a  corn.  If  I  have  hurt  your 
feelings,  then  your  feelings  were  ripe  for  the 
hurting.  If  flesh  were  not  heir  to  pain  the  body 
would  destroy  itself  for  lack  of  precaution.  So  if 
I  have  made  you  weep,  think.  If  I  have  made  you 
laugh,  think.  If  I  have  made  you  think,  think 
again— THEN  ACT ! 

THE  AUTHOR. 


'A  giant  shadow,  bended  with  the  weight  of  an  eighty-pound 
pack,  stopped  in  the  snow  and  listened!" 


CHAPTER   I. 

WOLVES  ! 

Alas  for  life — the  best  I  knew — 

The  day  is  done; 
Pause  not  for  me,  nor  error  rue, 

But  call  my  son. 

Up  from  the  black  swamp  in  the  valley 
and  into  the  chill  silence  tore  an  unearthly 
and  terrifying  yell. 

A  giant  shadow,  bended  with  the  weight 
of  an  eighty  pound  pack,  stopped  in  the 
snow  and  listened. 

Again  the  blood-curdling  cry  split  the 
night ;  this  time  from  a  different  quarter. 

The  shadow  heard,  and  nodded,  wisely. 

Still  once  again  came  the  doleful,  agoniz- 
ing plaint,  in  a  long-drawn-out  wail,  like  the 
cadence  of  despair  up  from  some  cavern- 
throated  chasm  of  lost  souls!  Up,  up  it 
soared,  rocket-like,  resonantly  wooing  its 
dizzy  goal  with  lute-noted  affinity;  then 
spent  and  subsiding,  slid  back  to  earth  and 
lost  itself  in  a  dying,  gutteral  moan. 

Again  the  shadow  heard  and  nodded. 
Then  turning  heavily  in  the  snow  looked 
back  in  the  direction  of  the  little  cabin  left 
behind.  The  shadow  knew!  It  was  the 
dreaded  CaU  of  the  Wolf! 

It  was  fifty  below  zero.  The  night  was  still 
unto  death.  So  still  and  inert  was  all  in  earth 
and  above  earth  that  the  redundant  silence 

(i) 


2  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

was  palpitant  with  terror  at  its  own  magnifi- 
cence. Long  and  motionless  the  shadow 
paused  and  listened ;  but  all  was  still  again, 
for  silence  reigns  supreme  at  the  top  of  the 
world,  and  the  only  voice  of  the  Silence  is 
the  conjugal  voice  of  Death. 

Then  up  from  the  valley  and  over  the 
bleak  desert  of  silent  rest  swept  the  multi- 
throated  yelp  of  the  wolf -pack.  There  was 
no  mistaking  it,  that  wild,  discordant  chorus 
which  freezes  the  blood  with  a  song  that 
spells  the  traveler's  doom.  The  shadow 
heard  and  smiled.  Not  sweetly,  babe-like, 
but  grimly  and  cruelly  like  the  triumphant 
smile  of  the  suicide.  Like  the  gambler's 
smile  when,  the  victim  taking  a  last  chance 
on  a  final  throw,  gamely  loses.  'Twas  the 
smile  of  conquest.  The  smile  that  lifts  the 
scornful  lip  of  the  unwhipped  fighter  with  a 
sneer  of  defiance— the  smile  that  challenges 
Death! 

Jason  Sands  was  not  born  yesterday. 
The  poise  of  head  and  flash  of  eye  were 
marks  of  discipline  undergone  in  a  cruel 
school  and  at  the  hands  of  a  cruel  master. 
This  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  heard 
the  hated  wolf-cry.  He  had  faced  danger 
many  times  in  his  day,  and  he  had  come 
to  know  it  for  what  it  was  worth  and  could 
face  it  unafraid.  For  twenty  years  danger 
had  been  his  constant  companion;  and  he 
boasted  he  could  sense  it  in  advance — in- 
tuitively, as  it  were— with  an  inscrutable 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  3 

intuition  that  baffled  even  himself,  but 
which  never  failed  him. 

Right  or  wrong,  he  had  come  to  look 
upon  death  and  the  menace  of  death  as 
part  and  parcel  of  life  itself,  and  scorn- 
fully he  invaded  its  most  sacred  precincts; 
violated  its  most  inviolable  creeds;  scoffed 
at  its  immutable  mandates  and  contemptu- 
ously defied  rather  than  feared  it. 

What  was  this  thing  Death,  anyway? 
Why  should  one  be  hounded  through  life 
making  preparations  for  a  thing  known  to 
be  inevitable,  only  to  flee  from  it  in  terror 
when  met  with  face  to  face?  If  the  souls 
of  men — predamned — were  to  be  "saved" 
from  death  everlasting,  or  " damned"  with 
life  everlasting,  as  the  case  might  be,  what 
in  hell  was  the  use  fretting  to  keep  up  ap- 
pearances ? 

If  to  be  wafted  heavenward,  or  sluiced 
hellward,  were  at  the  optional  whim  of  the 
Heavenly  Father  who,  being  responsible 
for  our  beginning  and.  end,  had  it  all  cut 
and  dried  beforehand  just  what  our  fate 
was  to  be,  all  one  might  offer  by  way  of 
protest  must  be  simply  so  much  hot  air. 
Thus  he  reasoned;  and  he  would  not  pros- 
titute his  splendid  manhood  in  venial  sup- 
plications to  a  juryless  court  that  never 
convened  and  from  which  there  could  be 
no  appeal. 

Death?  Ha!  It  would  have  to  show 
him !  Besides,  he  was  ready  for  it,  and  for 


4  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

the  filial  struggle  with  it;  for  had  he  not 
whipped  it  on  more  than  one  occasion  al- 
ready? Yes,  a  dozen  times,  single-handed 
and  alone.  It  were  the  strong  who  won  life 
from  the  battle  of  life,  and  he  was  strong. 
True,  the  battle  might  not  be  nice,  but  it 
was  on,  and  had  been  raging  for  many  a 
year.  In  fact,  it  was  here  when  he  came 
and  was  not  of  his  making.  He  was  a  vic- 
tim of  it,  a  creature  of  environment. 

His  forty  summers  he  preferred  to  desig- 
nate as  ' 'forty  frosts;"  for  summers  and 
sunshine  were  for  the  idlers,  and  not  for 
such  as  he.  These  were  things  he  had  come 
to  know. 

Having  lived  in  twenty-eight  states  in 
the  union,  circled  the  globe  twice  and  not 
having  been  born  blind,  there  were  things 
he  had  seen!  He  had  pillowed  his  head  on 
live  goose-down  in  the  palaces  of  affluence, 
and  he  had  slept  under  the  wharf  with  the 
rats.  Also  he  had  pillowed  his  head  on  the 
bosom  of  woman;  but  that  was  a  memory 
of  other  days,  days  in  the  toyland  of  life 
when  the  world  was  small  and  sweet,  and 
when  love  was  sweet  and  young.  Moreover, 
his  flesh  had  quivered  at  the  numbing  drive 
of  keen-edged  steel,  and  the  white-hot  pain 
in  the  sting  of  "cold  lead"  was  known  to 
him. 

The  man  was  a  giant  and  possessed  a 
giant's  strength  and  courage.  Also  he  pos- 
sessed spirit,  and  an  indomitable  character, 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  5 

neither  to  be  humbled  nor  cajoled.  These 
splendid  characteristics  were  ever  being 
mistaken  by  fools  for  ugliness  and  a  natural 

*  C7 

avidity  for  being  on  the  "off  side." 

No  more  appreciated  and  none  the  less 
creditable,  was  his  finely  tuned  sense  of 
justice;  and  whenever  he  would  fight  rather 
than  submit  to  tyranny,  these  "little 
people, "  as  he  called  them — men  and  women 
of  tight-screwed  mentality — hastened  to 
brand  him  "trouble-maker  and  disorderly 
person." 

But  here  was  a  man — one  man — who 
would  not  be  cut  down  to  fit  their  pigmy 
habitations.  Here  was  a  man  living  large 
and  broad  in  spite  of  want  and  oppression. 
Their  narrow  codes  and  commandments 
could  not  encompass  him;  for  he  loved  the 
music  of  the  living  spheres,  and  the  limita- 
tions of  human  brotherhood  were  bounded 
only  by  the  limitations  of  the  cosmic  realm. 

He  knew  Nature,  and  he  loved  her  ways 
and  deeds.  Understanding  her  voice  and 
living  by  her  plan,  they  were  companions, 
roaming  the  world  together  and  singing  the 
unsung  songs  of  their  unknown  and  silent 
love. 

Here  was  a  man  who  could  carve  a  habi- 
tation from  the  virgin  forest,  rear,  and 
furnish  it,  with  the  aid  of  but  a  single  tool. 
Here  was  a  man  who  both  wrote  and  sang 
songs.  And  out  in  the  world  which  knew 
him  not,  many  little  children  sang  the  songs 


6  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

he  had  written ;  but  he  knew  the  world,  for 
it  had  broken  his  heart  and  driven  him  over 
the  mountains  and  over  the  snows  to  try  the 
one  thing  left  him,  the  mining  of  gold. 

Not  that  he  wanted  the  gold  for  the  sake 
of  it  as  riches,  such  were  miserly  motives 
and  tended  to  decay;  but  men  had  made 
laws  compelling  each  other  to  get  gold  or 
starve,  and  without  which  the  things  of  life 
piled  high  in  the  marts  were  unobtainable. 

He  had  earned  much  gold.  Also,  he  had 
done  some  starving,  off  and  on,  with  the  re- 
sult that  life  had  been,  not  life  at  all,  but 
ever  a  fruitless  grind. 

Political  parties  had  come  and  gone,  but 
Poverty  had  remained.  The  years  had  left 
him  older  and  poorer. 

He  had  sweltered  in  their  mills  and  on 
their  railroads,  on  their  ships  and  in  their 
offices;  the  sum  total  of  which  being  that 
he  had  grown  older  and  poorer,  more 
friendless  and  unloved,  discredited  and  de- 
spised. And  so,  the  dividend  on  all  the  in- 
vestment had  been :  Age  and  poverty,  pov- 
erty and  old  age  and  insecurity,  homeless- 
ness,  hopelessness,  and  death  only  awaiting 
him  at  the  end  of  the  trail.  Added  to  all 
this  like  a  nightmare  had  come  the  awaken- 
ing consciousness  of  having  been  but  a  sub- 
missive, though  unwilling,  wage  slave. 

So  much  in  passing  for  the  man-shadow 
that  loomed  powerful  and  alert  under  the 
growing  gray  of  the  Arctic  dawn,  listening 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  7 

to  the  hunger-cry  of  the  wolf-pack  rising 
out  of  the  dismal  swamp  in  the  valley. 
Why,  then,  should  he  fear  them?  Besides, 
was  he  not  a  dead  shot?  Then  let  them  try 
it  on.  He  would  fool  them. 

"Why  don't  you  come  for  me,  my  pretty 
darlings?"  he  sneered.  Then  after  a  mo- 
ment's listening:  "I  wonder  what  God's 
gray  angels  are  up  to  off  there  in  that 
damned  swamp!  I  didn't  come  that  way 
and  haven't  made  any  noise.  Besides, 
that's  to  windward  and  they  could  not  have 
scented  me  from  there."  As  the  raving 
confusion  grew  fainter  and  more  to  the 
northeast,  he  continued:  "I  know  it  can't 
be  Ben,  and  I  hate  to  think  it's  the  mail 
up  from  Dawson  to  Gold  City;  but  if  it  is, 
he's  off  his  trolley  by  more  than  two  hun- 
dred miles,  and  I'm  thinking  this  will  be 
about  his  last  trip.  Well,  by  the  time 
they've  eaten  him  and  his  outfit  I'll  be  over 
the  ridge,  and  by  the  time  they've  slept  it 
off  I'll  be  out  of  hearing  and  beyond  the 
reach  of  their  cunning  smellers,  if  the  wind 
don't  shift,  which  isn't  likely;  there's  too 
little  of  it.  Anyway,  four  hundred  miles 
is  not  so  far,  so  if  that  choir  of  pious-eyed 
hell-hounds  don't  head  me  off  and  if  it 
don't  thaw,  I'll  be  about  right  with  the  boat 
if  she  leaves  Dawson  on  schedule  time. 
There's  plenty  of  grub,  too,  my  dawny-hued 
beauties,  so  whenever  you're  ready  to  start 
something  I'll  stay  with  you  for  a  while,  I 
promise  you," 


8  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

Beaching  up  over  his  head  to  the  top  of 
the  pack,  he  felt  out  the  five  boxes  of  car- 
tridges to  make  sure  they  were  still  there 
where  he  knew  he  had  packed  them.  Once 
more  defiantly,  though  unconsciously  smil- 
ing, he  turned  a  last  time  to  listen  to  the 
hunt-mad  demons,  then  sarcastically  solilo- 
quized: " Whoever  you  are,  old-timer,  I'd 
like  to  be  in  with  you  when  the  curtain  goes 
up.  We'd  make  'em  go  some  while  lead 
and  liver  lasted;  but  it  seems  to  me  a  man 
with  the  brains  of  a  Burbank  Seedling 
would  have  fought  shy  of  rabbit  swamps 
getting  in  here,  and  you'll  learn!  I  did. 
These  free-for-all  fights,  you  know,  tend 
to  ' bring  out  the  best  in  us';  and  all  you 
have  to  do  is  'be  good  and  you'll  be  happy!' 
I  guess  you're  in  for  it,  old  sport,  so  cheer 
up,  and  let  the  best  brute  win!  And,  you 
know,"  he  rambled  on,  "if  you're  a  good 
Christian  gentleman,  'God  will  be  with  you,' 
which  promise  ought  to  be  consolation 
enough  for  any  man  to  take  with  him  into 
the  stomachs  of  five  hundred  wolves!" 

"Poor  cuss!"  he  reflected  a  moment  later. 
"He's  lost,  most  probably,  and  there's  ab- 
solutely no  hope  for  him.  But  why  should 
it  concern  me?  I  couldn't  help  him  if  I 
would,  he's  too  far  away.  My  dear,  Chris- 
tian mother  taught  me  to  mind  my  own 
business  and  let  well  enough  alone;  'climb 
to  the  top,  beat  the  other  fellow  to  it  and 
get  the  cream!'  'Be  satisfied  with  your  lot, 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  9 

Jasie,  and  don't  go  borrowing  trouble.' 
Worse  luck !  The  neighbors  hereabouts  are 
too  far  apart  1" 

Thus  winding  up  his  satirical  harangue, 
the  hardened  miner  hunched  the  sagging 
pack  higher  between  his  great  shoulders, 
wound  his  sinewy  arms  around  his  rifle  and 
bit  into  the  frozen  end  of  the  Arctic  trail. 

His  course  lay  to  the  southwest,  sixteen 
days— snowshoe  time — from  the  "Broken 
Bone."  But  he  had  allowed  four  days 
extra  for  good  measure  and  possible  acci- 
dents, planning  his  supplies  accordingly. 
Once  at  Dawson,  he  would  bid  farewell  to 
the  frozen  dome  of  earth  forever.  With  the 
little  dust  stowed  away  in  the  pack,  he 
would  go  back  to  the  world  where  the  sun 
shines  and  where  the  roses  bloom;  settle  up 
with  the  few  friends  who  had  proven  true, 
attend  to  another  matter  of  long  standing, 
and  close  the  books. 

Four  years  back  while  prospecting  alone 
he  had  fallen  in  a  mad  flight  down  the 
mountain,  trying  to  escape  a  down-coming 
slide,  and  broken  the  tibia  of  his  left  leg. 
Notwithstanding  the  solitude  and  cold, 
coupled  with  the  danger  from  wolves  and 
starvation,  he  battled  on  through  the  long 
winter  months,  successfully  mending  his 
broken  leg,  and  winning  one  more  signal 
victory  over  the  courtesan  queen  of  the 
spectral  kingdom.  Later,  he  found  gold  in 
the  very  slide  that  had  caused  him  so  much 


10  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

suffering,  as  if  the  hand  of  fate  would  ex- 
piate the  wrong  with  the  wonted  yellow 
balm.  And  thus  it  was  that  the  "  Broken 
Bone"  mine  came  to  be  born  and  named. 

At  the  top  of  the  world  life  is  a  rare  and 
lonesome  thing.  But  life  is  full  of  hope, 
and  a  grim  tenacity  to  be,  and  to  master 
death.  It  is  a  fighting  life  and  a  living 
fight.  It  is  a  fight  that  neither  begs  nor 
gives  quarter.  It  is  win  or  lose  with  the 
winning  or  losing  of  life  or  death. 
" Thumbs  down,"  that's  the  symbol,  and  to 
a  finish!  There  is  no  arbitration  here. 
There  is  " nothing  to  arbitrate."  Speech 
is  an  asset  not  to  be  squandered  idly  where 
Justice  cowers  in  her  citadel  behind  the  law 
of  self-preservation. 

Man,  like  the  eaters  of  flesh  and  drinkers 
of  blood,  must  rise  above  the  law  or  under 
it  go  down.  It  was  the  weak  that  went 
down,  but  Jason  Sands  was  not  weak.  He 
not  only  obeyed  the  law,  but  also  he  inter- 
preted, aye,  dictated  it! 

Morning  broke  still  and  gray.  Like  a 
gyroscope,  the  crystal  dome  or  earth  ca- 
reened, dipping  its  southern  rim  awash  in 
a  flood  of  crimson  glory.  'Twas  like  a 
painted  ship  on  a  painted  ocean,  feathering 
her  lee  rail  in  the  trough  of  a  fancied  sea. 
The  scarlet  sun,  like  a  toy  balloon,  would 
float  lazily  for  a  space  along  the  frosty 
fringe  of  the  boreal  circle,  then  roll  over 
the  edge  as  the  world  tipped  back,  disap- 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  11 

pearing  in  his  rosy  robe  like  the  spotlight 
queen  of  the  fairy  fire-dancers. 

Jason  knew  the  day  would  be  short,  and 
he  would  make  the  most  of  it,  camping  at 
first  sign  of  dusk,  this  would  mean  twenty 
hours  of  constant  snowshoeing  without  a 
break  for  rest  or  sleep. 

Fifty  miles  at  least,  he  figured,  had  been 
eaten  out  of  the  four  hundred.  "Three 
hundred  and  fifty  left — fifty  at  a  slap 
—eight  camps  and  there  you  are,  Jason, 
old  hoss,  and  you're  good  for  it  or 
you're  a  piker,  and  you  know  you're 
there  with  the  goods,"  he  said  aloud.  Paus- 
ing to  gaze  down  into  the  bottoms  country 
off  to  the  left  slope  of  the  ridge,  he  broke 
out  savagely :  * '  Oh,  you  yellow-hearted  sin- 
ners! Whose  mother's  darling  have  you 
torn  from  his  red  bones  this  time?  You 
may  swarm  your  swamps  and  I  will  not 
molest  you.  Give  me  the  ridges  where  the 
footing  is  better  and  I  will  pick  no  fuss 
with  you." 

The  weather  was  fine,  clear  and  dry  and 
cold. 

The  day  wore  on. 

With  the  western  sky  ablur  with  purple 
twilight,  lower  crouching  from  strain  of 
pack  and  trail,  and  heavy  with  oncoming 
sleep,  the  titanic  Jason  bent  on  toward  the 
sound  of  falling  water  that  leaped  and 
foamed  through  a  rocky  gorge  and  plunged 
a  thousand  feet  among  the  ice-terraced 
rocks  below.  He  knew  the  location,  having 


12  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

prospected  and  camped  there  during  the 
summer  of  1906. 

The  trembling  thunder  of  the  falls  grew 
louder  as  the  distance  shortened  and  the 
top  of  the  white  world  and  the  bottom  of 
the  sombre  sky  drew  together;  and  ere  the 
dusky  nightmaids  had  pursed  their  purple 
curtain  overhead,  Jason  Sands  had  drunk 
his  fill  of  the  icy  water,  that  thickened  in 
the  tin  cup  like  slivered  glass.  He  gazed 
about  the  falls  with  puzzled  scrutiny,  shook 
his  head  gravely,  then  proceeded  to  cross 
the  river.  Climbing  the  far  bank  to  the  ice 
above  the  falls,  he  studied  the  face  of  the 
cliff  long  and  critically.  Then  he  swore 
audibly,  jabbed  the  butt  of  his  rifle  down 
into  the  snow  and  freed  himself  from  pack 
and  snowshoes. 

The  spot  he  had  selected  for  his  camp  site 
was  a  natural  veranda  in  the  side  of  a  huge 
shelf  of  rock  that  jutted  far  out  over  the 
crest  of  the  deafening  waterfall.  In  sum- 
mertime such  a  bed-chamber  must  have 
been  both  unique  and  grand.  But  Jason 
had  forgotten  that  it  was  different  now. 
Instead  of  finding  his  old  "roost"  as  he 
called  it,  high  and  dry,  and  away  from  all 
dangers,  the  sloping  walls  were  faced  solid 
with  ice  and  snow.  However,  the  exact  lo- 
cation was  clearly  defined  by  a  great  crevice 
at  the  rear  of  the  platform.  This  showed 
in  a  whiter  line  straight  up  through  the  en- 
tire brow  of  the  promontory  and  down  to 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  13 

the  bed  of  the  river  a  thousand  feet  below 
the  falls. 

During  the  four  months  he  had  made  his 
nest  on  the  ledge,  Jason  never  feared  a 
visit  from  wolves,  though  he  knew  the  coun- 
try to  be  infested  with  the  "  slant-eyed  ver- 
min" as  he  dubbed  them.  The  crevice  in 
the  rear  afforded  an  excellent  back  door  to 
the  level  below,  and  was  filled  nearly  to  the 
floor  of  the  shelf  with  crumblings  from  the 
rift  overhead.  Thus  it  was  safely  naviga- 
ble from  the  north  bank  for  one  of  Jason's 
enormous  size  and  strength,  who  could 
straddle  with  one  foot  on  either  side,  the 
yawning  chasm  stretching  away  deep  and 
black  far  beneath.  But  it  was  absolutely 
inaccessible  to  all  other  forms  of  life  not 
possessing  wings. 

In  repose,  Jason  Sands  was  a  deep  and 
thorough  thinker ;  but  in  action  he  was  like 
a  coil  of  steel  springs  released.  Possessing 
a  finely  disciplined  mentality,  thought  and 
action  were  a  unit  with  him,  and  operated 
with  the  rapidity  and  precision  of  lightning. 
In  fact,  as  he  often  said,  the  fighting  life 
cut  out  for  him  had  been  so  fierce  and  rapid, 
he  believed  he  sometimes  acted  first  and 
without  thought,  reserving  the  latter  oper- 
ation for  more  leisurable  and  congenial 
circumstances. 

There  is  a  peculiar  development  in  the 
faculties  of  men  born  with  the  instinct  and 
love  of  hunting,  that  enables  the  best  of 


14  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

them  to  drop  a  buck  running  at  full  speed, 
rifle  at  waistline.  It  is  a  sort  of  scientific 
physical  heritage  that  with  long  practice 
becomes  truly  marvelous.  Jason  was  per- 
fection in  this  backwo.ods  accomplishment, 
and  his  remarkable  skill  in  woodcraft  had, 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  been  the  means 
of  prolonging  not  only  his  own  life,  but  the 
lives  of  others.  He  was  both  man  and  mas- 
ter. And  here  he  was  at  the  top  of  the 
world,  alone  in  a  desert  of  ice  and  snow  and 
it  was  coming  night. 

As  the  prospect  of  being  eaten  by  wolves 
— either  human  or  animal — had  never  ap- 
pealed very  strongly  to  his  sacrificial  pro- 
clivities, and  noting  that  the  cliff  was  an 
ice-wall,  he  quickly  made  a  decision:  He 
would  scale  the  wall  to  the  shelf,  scoop  out 
the  snow  with  axe  and  snowshoe,  spread  his 
blanket  and  have  a  good  night's  sleep  while 
thfi  torrent  foamed  below.  To  chor)  an  im- 
provised stairwav  slantingly  ur>  from  the 
frozen  river  to  the  overhang  above,  would 
mean  but  a  blow  with  the  axe  for  each  stair ; 
and  once  safely  lodged  for  the  night,  the 
ra  pin  fir  waters  would  drown  all  other  noises, 
including  the  yelmnsr  of  his  furry  friends, 
should  they  trail  him  to  his  temporal  perch. 

That  settled  it.  He  crept  cautiously  to 
the  edge  of  the  ice  just  back  of  the  steai-ninn; 
current,  feeling  out  its  strength  and  thick- 
ness with  his  hunter's  half -axe,  dipped  up 
and  drank  some  more  of  the  burning-cold 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  15 

water  (for  his  supper  would  have  to  be 
munched  dry,  and  thawed  as  munched). 
Backing  away  from  the  open  hole  he  arose 
to  his  feet,  and  with  a  look  that  was  neither 
animal  nor  human,  and  in  a  voice  neither 
animal  nor  human,  fairly  belched:  "Great 
God  Almighty!"  One  swift  look  was 
enough.  There  they  were— WOLVES !  A 
great  V-shaped  line  of  them  the  width  of 
the  river,  and  they  were  on  his  track.  Now 
they  were  climbing  the  south  bank  below 
the  falls — Christ!  hundreds  of  them.  Aha! 
It  is  steep.  The  leaders  slip  and  fall  back. 
See!  They  are  quarreling!  Quick!  It  is 
now  or  never.  Jason!  Jason!  Jason  Sands 
have  you  turned  to  stone  ?  Fly — somewhere 
—anywhere  for  your  life. 

But  Jason  Sands  had  not  turned  to  stone. 
Neither  had  the  minutest  detail  of  the 
frightful  drama  escaped  his  trained  vision. 
In  the  second  that  had  elapsed  he  was 
thinking.  Thinking  first  in  this  crisis,  he 
would  act  later  and  at  the  proper  time — he 
always  had. 

There  are  times  in  the  lives  of  men— 
some  men — when  hope  flees  and  life  pivots 
in  the  balance  to  the  bending  of  knees  and 
the  wringing  of  hands.  A  fire;  the  cannon's 
mouth ;  the  sinking  ship ;  a  fall  from  a  great 
height;  a  thousand  ways  in  which  men 
have  met  death.  And,  when  a  moment  ago 
life  was  full  of  joy  and  sunshine,  heedless 
were  they  of  both  present  and  future;  but 


16  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

with  the  Raw  Head  staring  them  in  the  face 
from  eyeless  orifices,  they  paled  before  the 
stark  spectre,  crumpled  up  in  palsied  sup- 
plication, bellowing  into  the  black  beyond 
and  paying  the  inevitable  toll  with  inco- 
herent, raving  protest. 

There  have  been  times  when  other  men 
faced  the  same  immutable  spectre ;  and  rais- 
ing an  aggressive  chin  to  the  level  of  her 
lipless,  worm-eaten  jaw,  they  met  her  empty 
grin  of  immutability  with  the  confident 
smile  of  manly  godhood ;  swept  her  croning 
bones  from  life's  pathway  and  walked  free. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  varied  as  it 
had  been  and  full  of  dangers,  Jason  Sands 
felt  the  presence  of  the  Bony  Reaper.  Not 
that  he  was  afraid,  for  to  him  the  word  was 
meaningless.  But  he  knew  he  was  in  a  trap. 
He  knew  the  wolves  would  soon  be  upon  him 
and  that  he  could  not  kill  all  of  them  un- 
protected as  he  was  on  all  sides.  They  were 
coming.  He  knew  what  he  would  do.  Rash 
and  desperate  though  it  was,  he  would  face 
and  fight  them  where  he  was ;  kill  as  many 
as  he  could  with  pistol  and  knife,  then — at 
the  last  moment — his  strength  gone  and  no 
chance  or  hope,  he  would  take  one  step 
backward  into  the  bulging  crest  of  the  open 
falls  and  fool  them  at  last  with  all  their 
accursed  cunning.  They  should  never  pick 
his  bones.  On  that  point  he  was  settled. 

In  the  Great  Cosmos  there  is  one  law :  the 
Law  of  Change.  All  things  being  subject 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  17 

to  that  law,  why  marvel  that  some  men 
deign  to  change  their  minds  ?  Some  change 
their  minds  voluntarily  to  keep  pace  with 
the  changing  conditions  of  economic  life. 
Others  have  their  minds  changed  for  them, 
sometimes,  alas,  too  late. 

Men  have  come  and  gone  who  benefited 
the  world  by  having  lived  in  it.  Others 
benefit  it  by  getting  out  of  it.  Jason  Sands 
was  in  tune  with  the  universe.  He  long 
since  had  cast  off  the  millstones  of  preju- 
dice, ignorance  and  superstition,  and  nu- 
merous beliefs,  leaving  more  mental  elbow 
room  in  which  to  grapple  with  the  simple 
problems  of  everyday  life. 

Jason  Sands  Changed  His  Mind. 

It  was  a  horrible  scheme  that  had  flashed 
through  his  brain  with  a  swiftness  that  took 
his  breath  away.  And  then  there  flashed 
another  thought — a  vision— the  memory  of 
a  lone,  fatherless  and  motherless  boy,  some- 
where out  in  the  world,  for  whom  he,  Jason 
Sands,  must  live  and  fight  and  hunt,  as  he 
had  lived  and  fought  and  hunted  for  twenty 
weary  years.  For  himself  he  did  not  care ; 
but  for  him,  his  son,  his  only  boy,  he  did 
care,  and  he  would  not  die.  He  would  live. 
He  would  fight  and  win;  and  some  day  he 
would  find  his  child,  a  victory  indeed.  This 
being  final,  nothing  could  swerve  him  from 
his  heroic  purpose.  Surely  not  a  handful 
of  cowardly  puppies! 

And  Then  Jason  Sands  Acted! 


18  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

With  a  bound  and  a  blow  he  was  halfway 
up  the  ice-wall  to  the  coveted  place  of 
safety.  Madly  he  wielded  the  little  half- 
axe,  as  step  by  step  he  rose.  Then,  with  a 
shock  that  nearly  loosed  his  hold,  hanging 
there  in  bas-relief  like  a  graven  image,  the 
old  sensation  of  impending  peril  seized  him 
as  one  may  be  seized  from  behind  by  an 
unseen  foe.  He  did  not  turn  to  look,  no 
time  for  that ;  but  with  a  speed  and  strength 
that  unleashed  every  fibre  of  muscle  in  his 
huge  body  and  fired  his  nerves  like  the 
charged  wires  of  a  battery,  he  swung  both 
axe  and  body  backward  and  downward  with 
the  impact  and  resistibility  of  a  steel  truss. 

"Sure!  I  knew  it!"  he  hissed,  as  the 
keen,  polished  blade  crashed  full  in  the  face 
and  eyes  of  the  leader  of  the  pack,  severing 
the  husky  head  at  the  ears  and  sending 
both  head  and  carcass  spurting  a  crimson 
torrent  in  all  directions  among  the  onrush- 
ing  brutes  below. 

Confusion  reigned  at  the  sight  of  their 
fallen  leader,  but  it  was  of  brief  duration. 
Up  shot  another  fanged  shadow,  then  an- 
other and  another;  only  to  meet  the  now 
blood-encrusted  steel  in  mid-air  and  to  be 
smashed  back  to  earth  and  to  the  mercy  of 
the  cannibalistic  host  at  the  bottom  of  the 
wall.  For  each  pair  of  leaping,  snapping 
jaws  that  came  he  sent  back  a  dead  wolf: 
and  for  every  one  slain  another  came.  Ur> 
they  sprang,  death  and  blood  and  wounds 
only  lending  wings  to  their  devilish  fury. 


THE  TORCH  OP  REASON.  19 

It  was  a  gruesome  spectacle.  Like  a  fly 
in  a  spider's  web  hung  the  desperate  man, 
sheath-knife  driven  deep  in  the  snow-ice 
far  above,  the  handle  of  which  he  gripped 
in  his  left  hand.  With  muscles  drawn  like 
tuned  catgut,  smeared  with  bloody  ice  and 
swaying  back  and  forth  like  a  storm-door 
on  its  hinges,  cutting  and  slashing  and 
maiming,  lip  curled  in  the  old  smile  that 
never  lost  a  battle,  eyes  flashing  blue  death 
down  into  the  constellation  of  green  death 
below,  hung  the  grand  old  warrior.  It  was 
a  sight  such  as  man  or  beast  had  never  seen 
before ! 

Just  one  more  step !  Oh,  if  only  he  could 
make  it !  One  more,  only  one  more !  Safety 
lay  just  beyond  that  one  step.  They  could 
not  reach  him  there.  But  clinging  on  that 
wall-paper  of  bloody  ice,  to  take  that  step 
were  a  ticklish  venture.  He  reasoned  that 
lie  could  not  make  the  forward  turn  and  up- 
ward spring  with  enough  speed  and  surety 
of  footing  and  at  the  same  time,  while  de- 
fending his  none  too  secure  left  foot  with 
the  axe.  If  he  turned  and  raised  his  right 
foot  for  the  leap,  the  movement  would  put 
the  axe,  his  only  available  weapon  of  de- 
fense, out  of  commission.  An  advantage 
that,  from  experience,  he  knew  would  not 
be  lost  on  his  alert  and  deadly  foe.  More- 
over, if  obliged  to  continue  the  fight  in  his 
present  predicament,  it  was  a  question  of 
but  seconds ;  for  a  new  peril  had  beset  him. 


20  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

His  left  arm  for  some  minutes  had  been 
slowly  but  surely  losing  its  sense  of  feeling. 
The  numbness  had  now  reached  the  shoul- 
der, and  was  creeping  up  the  biceps  inch 
by  inch  to  the  elbow.  Jason  knew  that  when 
the  anesthetic  stage  should  reach  the  fingers, 
his  hold  on  the  knife  must  relax,  sending 
him  gyrating  down  into  the  jaws  of  the 
murderous  beasts  and  to  certain  death. 

O,  for  one  blessed  moment  in  which  to 
switch  the  axe  for  his  "Automatic."  He 
would  put  a  different  taste  into  their  slimy 
mouths.  Now  the  cold,  prickly  sensation 
was  in  his  forearm.  With  all  his  terrific 
strength  he  renewed  his  grip  on  the  sheath- 
knife.  It  was  a  critical  moment.  The  in- 
terval between  life  and  death  spanned  by  a 
lightning  flash  of  time,  but  age-long  in 
thought.  Worlds  swam  before  his  eyes. 
The  whole  life  scroll  unrolled.  Vistas— 
eternity-long — swept  in  panoramic  train 
past  the  lens  of  his  mind  with  a  speed  to 
shame  chain  lightning.  Would  they  never 
let  up  for  just  one  second ! 

"Not  yet,  you  fiend!"  he  ground  out  be- 
tween clenched  teeth,  the  red  flaked  foam 
of  battle  spurting  from  his  bursting  lips, 
as  a  monster  brute  slashed  his  moccasin,  the 
next  instant  to  lose  the  whole  forepart  of 
his  head  to  the  eyes  for  his  pains.  Follow- 
ing the  slashed  moccasin,  he  became  con- 
scious of  a  thin,  needle-like  pain  in  that 
foot  at  the  base  of  the  little  toe.  Accom- 


"For  each  pair  of  leaping,  snapping  jaws  that  came,  he  sent 
back  a  dead  wolf." 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  21 

panying  the  pain  was  a  hot,  feathery  feel- 
ing akin  to  the  buzz  of  a  bee's  wing.  But 
there  was  no  time  for  this.  The  mighty 
right  arm  with  its  axen  extremity  had  never 
for  a  moment  ceased  its  windmill  cycle  of 
cutting  and  slashing  of  skull,  and  jaw,  nose 
and  neck  and  breast ;  but  the  time  had  come. 
It  was  now  pitch  dark. 

When  a  mere  boy,  Jason  had  learned 
some  great  and  valuable  lessons  from  old 
"Pete,"  who  lived  higher  up  on  the  moun- 
tain; and  now,  when  the  end  seemed  near, 
he  remembered  them  as  they  had  come  to 
him  a  thousand  times  before  in  the  hour  of 
trouble. 

"Boy,"  the  old  hunter  would  say,  "don't 
fight.  It's  hard  on  good  looks.  But  don't 
be  a  coward.  And  if  you  have  to  fight,  fight 
to  win."  Also  it  was  old  Pete  who  taught 
him  that:  "Whatever  is  worth  doing  is 
worth  doing  well."  These  were  simple  les- 
sons of  the  simple  wood  folk  of  the  moun- 
tains; but  Jason  had  never  forgotten  them, 
and  their  author  was  his  friend. 

With  the  coming  of  darkness,  eyes  only 
could  Jason  see.  Eyes !  Eyes !  Eyes !  Green 
balls  of  fire,  circling  and  dancing  and  leap- 
ing to  the  rythmical  roar  of  the  raging  wa- 
terfall. A  veritable  sea  of  emerald  coals 
below  and  in  front  of  him;  at  right  and  at 
left  of  him.  Like  myriads  of  mammoth 
fire-flies.  Straight  at  him  they  flew,  dart- 
ing up  and  falling  back.  Up  and  down,  in 


22  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

and  out  and  all  around;  a  leaping,  billow- 
ing ocean  of  deadly  venom  and  f anged  light- 
ning. Always  in  pairs  they  came,  like  gob- 
lin-goggled demons  storming  the  cata- 
combed  corridors  of  Hell.  Dancing  their 
demoniacal  dance  of  death  to  the  tune  of 
the  wailing  damned! 

It  was  awful !  And  in  that  maelstrom  of 
mad  destruction,  the  man  that  was  a  fighter 
lived— lived  on  and  fought  on,  and 
breathed,  and  thought  and  smiled — the 
smile  that  forbade  and  baffled  death.  Love 
had  fled  from  him.  Mercy  had  fled  from 
him.  Humanity  had  fled  from  him.  Only 
Will  remained  to  him — the  will  to  live  by 
killing  those  who  sought  to  kill  him.  He 
was  obeying  the  law  as  laid  down  by  his  en- 
vironment. Once  a  great,  noble-hearted 
boy-man,  now  he  was  but  a  killer,  an  autom- 
aton of  incarnate  slaughter,  as  he  obeyed 
the  command  and  fought  life  for  life. 

In  addition  to  the  perpetual  whirling  of 
the  axe  the  besieged  miner  had  kept  up  a 
constant  kicking  of  his  free  foot,  and  thrice 
the  moccasined  heel  had  met  ivory  fang; 
and  thrice  had  the  moose-hide  been  slit  as 
with  a  knife.  Still  the  fight  went  on.  The 
arm  kept  flying,  the  foot  kicking  and 
thrusting  and  sweeping  in  the  unequal  war 
of  desperation  with  might  and  will,  against 
overwhelming  numbers. 

With  mitten  now  blood-encrusted  and 
frozen  fast  to  the  axe-handle,  there  was  no 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  23 

danger  of  losing  hold  on  that  faithful 
weapon.  If  only  he  could  hold  on  by  the 
knife  they  would  never  get  him;  he  had 
come  to  know  that;  for  with  all  their 
strength  of  body  and  spring  of  leg  they 
were  scarcely  able  to  leap  above  his  ankle. 
He  would  have  them  all  wounded  in  time, 
then  he  would  complete  the  climb  in  safety 
while  his  enemies  nursed  their  wounds  at 
the  foot  of  the  bluff. 

Meanwhile,  the  numbness  in  the  uplifted 
arm  grew  apace,  creeping  up  the  forearm, 
to  the  wrist,  thence  to  the  hand  that 
clutched  the  buckhorn  overhead  in  the  ice- 
wall. 

The  green  fire-balls  were  growing  less 
and  less  numerous.  The  leaping  and  snap- 
ping less  and  less  often.  Axe  met  flesh  and 
bone  only  occasionally  now.  He  was  win- 
ning the  battle!  Centering  all  his  will  on 
his  now  almost  senseless  left  hand  with  its 
death-like  grip  on  the  foot  of  steel,  he  was 
about  to  try  for  the  one  step  that  must  mean 
victory  when  something  happened — a  thing 
that  turned  his  blood  to  ice  and  ended  the 
night's  carnage.  He  knew  it,  it  had  come 
at  last.  He  had  felt  it,  for  the  first  time, 
alas  too  late! 

In  striking  an  excessively  powerful  blow 
at  a  pair  of  eyes  wider  apart  than  the  rest, 
he  had  leaned  too  far  out,  and  though  blow 
met  blow,  and  steel  met  flesh,  cleaving  a 
lupine  skull  in  mid-air,  the  knife  had 
broken  at  the  hilt! 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE  TALE  OF  AN  UNTOLD  LOVE. 

Call  my  son  and  tell  him  all  my  story, 
Wisdom  only  may  I  leave  behind. 

Reason 's  torch  shall  more  than  golden  glory 
Light  the  future  where  the  past  was  blind. 

Ben  Page,  trail-worn  and  weary,  poked 
his  nose  through  the  stunted  growth  of 
scrub  timber  that  fringed  Lamb  Swamp, 
glanced  across  the  valley  to  the  little  hut 
of  logs  on  the  knoll  and  glided  easily  on 
over  the  smooth  snow  in  the  bottom,  after 
the  manner  of  men  long  used  to  meshed 
foot-gear  and  heavy  pack. 

No  light  gleamed  welcome  from  the  cabin 
window,  so  Jason  must  be  asleep  he  de- 
cided. He  would  give  him  a  real  stunning 
surprise!  The  rough  miner  grinned  boy- 
ishly as  he  contemplated  a  practical  joke  on 
his  unsuspecting  old  companion,  forgetting 
in  his  eagerness  both  hunger  and  pain  of 
trail. 

It  was  not  yet  daybreak  and  he  did  not 
notice  the  big  snowshoe  tracks  that  ran 
across  the  knoll  to  the  southwest.  Had  he 
seen  these  he  must  have  recognized  them 
among  thousands.  Only  one  person  in  all 
the  North  country  possessed  such  enormous 
bows,  and  that  person  was  Jason  Sands. 
Their  owner  had  wrought  those  very  bows, 

(24) 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  25 

riving  them  from  the  greenhouse  of  Mother 
Nature,  and  fashioning  them  in  conformity 
with  his  great  size  and  weight,  and  with 
his  own  hands.  Also,  he  had  filled  them 
with  rawhide  of  his  own  killing  and  curing. 
Ben  Page  crept  stealthily,  like  a  thief, 
upon  the  silent  habitation  of  his  old  friend. 
As  he  drew  nearer  a  great  longing  welled 
up  in  him,  a  longing  to  clasp  once  more  the 
great,  warm  hand  that  he  knew  to  be  an 
honest  one,  knowing  he  would  be  welcome 
with  the  same  eagerness  and  friendship  he 
had  found  so  warm  and  generous  before  he 
went  away.  He  could  hear  his  heart  thump- 
ing exultantly  as  he  strode  nervously  over 
the  creaking  snow.  Stepping  out  of  his 
snowshoes  he  tiptoed  to  the  door  and 
listened.  How  should  he  awaken  him,  call 
like  a  wolf?  No,  he  might  get  shot!  Fire 
off  his  rifle  then,  beat  against  the  door 
wildly  and  finally  burst  storming  in  upon 
him  with  great  hullaboo  like  a  drunken 
Indian  ?  No !  This  would  never  do,  either. 
Such  conduct  would  be  unbecoming  and  un- 
dignified ;  besides,  he  was  a  friend  who  was 
returning  repentant  to  seek  reinstatement 
in  his  old  comrade's  affections.  Not  only 
this,  but  he  was  all  to  blame  for  the  fuss — 
he  knew  it ;  and  with  the  thoughts  of  it  the 
hot  blood  flushed  his  face  with  honest  shame 
and  a  lump  got  in  his  throat.  Oh  no,  it 
wasn't  fear!  but  just  suppose  he  wasn't 
welcome!  What  if  he  were  not  forgiven! 


26  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

Ben  had  seen  men  apprised  of  their  unwel- 
come to  the  hospitality  of  Jason  Sands,  and 
the  sight  was  not  a  pleasant  one.  What 
ailed  him,  anyway!  Was  it  the  dampness 
in  the  morning  air?  It  gathered  on  his 
forehead  like  ice-water. 

Then  courage  returned.  Or  was  it  his 
manhood  reasserting  itself?  Anyway,  he 
was  a  fool !  he  knew  Jason  Sands,  and  with- 
out further  trepidation  he  pushed  open  the 
door  and  stalked  in.  All  was  silent  there- 
silent,  and  dark,  and  cold.  A  lighted  match 
revealed  it  all — Jason  Sands  was  gone! 

The  life  of  Ben  Page  had  not  been  strewn 
with  roses.  Many  disappointments  had 
been  his ;  but  what  shall  we  say  of  the  black 
despair  that  bore  in  upon  him  in  the  cold 
silence  of  that  forsaken  solitude ! 

"Gone!"  he  cried  aloud,  again  and  again 
in  his  sorrow,  while  the  weight  of  his  shame 
engulfed  him  and  crushed  him  down  like 
an  avalanche. 

Puzzled  and  alarmed,  the  derelict  adven- 
turer proceeded  to  light  the  grease-lamp 
for  a  hurried  investigation.  With  mining 
outfit — pick,  shovel  and  mud-boots — in  the 
corner,  he  was  not  in  the  shaft.  His  rifle, 
pack  and  snowshoes  were  missing  from 
their  customary  places,  obviating  the  likeli- 
hood of  foul  play  or  suicide.  There  re- 
mained but  one  plausible  deduction — the 
man  of  many  sorrows  had  struck  for  the 
outside. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  27 

Three  months  back  thev  had  quarreled 
over  religion,  and  Ben  had  packed  kit  and 
run  off  in  a  silly  funk  of  wounded  feelings 
—more  imagined  than  real.  Shame  con- 
quering anger  at  last,  he  had  returned, 
sure  of  being  forgiven  and  welcomed,  for 
the  heart  of  Jason  Sands  was  big,  and  his 
great  love  was  as  deep  and  as  broad  as  the 
universe. 

He  had  rescued  Ben  from  the  very  jaws 
of  death,  shared  cabin  and  chuck  with  him, 
nursed  him  back  to  life  and  health,  later 
making  him  partner  in  the  "Broken  Bone," 
only  to  be  deserted  by  him  in  the  very  hour 
when  they  needed  each  other's  co-operative 
heir)  in  successfully  working  the  mine.  Ben 
had  begun  it,  starting  in  mildly  for  him  by 
calling  Jason  an  anarchist  and  a  damned 
infidel,  and  winding  up  with  the  charge  that 
all  unbelievers  were  just  alike  and  that  they 
were  all  going  to  hell  along  with  the  scien- 
tists and  the  Socialists!  Jason  had  denied 
nothing,  only  smiling,  noncommitally,  and 
in  an  off-hand  sallv  referred  to  what  he 
termed  "churchianity"  as  the  "F.  F.  P." 
worsh  ir> — * '  Fight-worship,  Fund-worship, 
and  Phallic-worship." 

Ben  loved  Jason,  and  would  gladly  have 
died  for  him ;  but  this  was  too  much.  He 
frankly  told  Jason  what  he  thought  of 
" Protestant  devils,"  forgetting  in  his  fool- 
ish -passion  that  it  was  not  to  the  Pope,  but 
to  this  particular  devil,  that  he  owed  his 
very  life. 


28  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

Over  in  a  dry  bed  back  of  the  " Pound" 
Claim,  forty  miles  north  from  the  "  Broken 
Bone,"  Ben  had  been  pegging  away  in  an 
old  hole,  deserted  by  Lon  Downing,  but  to 
little  purpose.  Though  he  had  worked  in- 
cessantly and  painfully,  keeping  up  a  con- 
stant burning  day  and  night,  it  was  a  dis- 
couraging venture,  yielding  little  profit.  He 
had  been  on  foot  since  early  dawn  of  the 
preceding  day,  without  food  or  sleep;  and 
upon  discovering  the  little  cabin  deserted, 
tumbled  into  his  old  bunk  of  fir  boughs  and 
in  the  next  breath  was  sleeping.  He  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  dead  until  the  yellow  glow 
of  the  mid-day  sun  streaming  through  the 
solitary  window  straight  into  his  eyes, 
awoke  him.  He  blinked  perplexedly ;  looked 
at  his  watch  hastily,  bounded  to  his  feet 
and  agilely  began  neaping  dry  pitchwood 
against  a  green  backlog,  half  burned  but 
cold,  in  the  stone  fireplace.  At  the  touch 
of  a  match  the  flames  leaped  up,  quickly 
filling  the  little  shell  with  warmth  and  a 
flaring  red  light. 

Now,  he  knew  he  was  hungry.  Seizing 
the  coffee  pot  he  opened  the  door  to  fill  it 
with  snow — 

"Well,  by  God!"  exploded  the  startled 
miner,  as  a  great  gray  form  slunk  away 
under  a  scrub  fir  and  made  for  the  ridge. 
In  a  flash,  rifle  had  replaced  coffee  pot,  and 
when  a  second  later  the  little  Savage  carbine 
spank— spank — spanked  into  the  frosty 
aphony,  it  spit  out  the  lives  of  three  great, 


"And  when  a  second  later  the  little  Savage  carbine  'spank- 
spank — spanked'   into  the  frosty  aphony,   it  spit  out  the 
lives  of  three  great  husky  timber   wolves." 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  29 

husky  timber  wolves  ere  they  could  reach 
cover  over  the  scruff  of  the  ridge  thirty 
yards  away. 

Men  who  carry  their  lives  in  their  hands, 
learn,  with  danger  staring  them  in  the  face, 
to  make  every  second  count.  To  miss  a 
shot  or  a  blow,  often  is  to  sever  the  slender 
thread  by  which  life  dangles  hazardously 
over  the  chasm  of  death.  To  live  and  thrive 
in  an  hostile  environment  one  must  know 
the  art  of  such  living,  become  expert  in  the 
most  compatible  means  of  self-defense,  dis- 
trust all  and  spare  none.  This  is  life  as  it 
is,  but  not  as  it  ought  to  be.  A  poet  once 
said: 

"Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

"The  saddest  are  these — it  might  have  been." 

To  which  Joaquin  Miller,  the  poet  of  the 
Sierras,  has  added  two  more  lines,  which 
seems  to  bring  the  lament  fully  up  to  date 
and  places  a  period  at  the  right  hand  of 
all  things  in  our  social  life  that  are  cruel 
and  wrong: 

"But  sadder  still  are  these  to  me — 
"It  is,  but  hadn't  ought  to  be." 

There  were  no  more  wolves  in  sight,  but 
wolf  tracks  and  wolf  signs  were  every- 
where. There  must  have  been  hundreds  of 
them  only  a  few  hours  since,  where  were 
they  now,  and  why  had  he  not  heard  them? 

' '  Must  a  picked  me  up  down  there  in  that 
black  hole,"  he  theorized.  "I  sure  must  a 
bin  puttin'  in  the  licks  after  hittin'  that 


30  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

there  bunk,  or  else  I  clean  croaked  and  then 
come  to  with  the  sun  or  I'd  a  heard  'em. 

Soundly  indeed  had  the  spent  traveler 
slept,  for  their  numbers  had  been  many  and 
their  yelpings  wild  and  furious.  They  had 
surrounded  the  cabin  and  kept  vigil  until 
mid-day,  when  suddenly  they  disappeared, 
leaving  behind  them  three  of  their  number 
—three  old  she  wolves  too  heavy  to  run. 
These  the  hunter  had  shot;  and  dragging 
them  to  the  door  proceeded  to  dispossess 
them  of  their  warm  coats  before  the  bodies 
should  have  time  to  freeze. 

"Fine  and  dandy,"  he  observed,  blowing 
his  breath  against  the  wiry  gray  fur,  part- 
ing it  to  the  skin  after  the  manner  of  the 
expert  fur  buyer. 

"Nice  and  warm  for  my  little  old  bunk. 
Too  damn  bad  the  rest  of  the  cussed  tribe 
had  other  engagements;  I'd  a  had  tails  a 
flutterin'  all  over  this  hangout  and  a 
blanket  fit  to  wrop  a  baby  up  in." 

The  science  and  dispatch  with  which  the 
skilled  woodman  peeled  off  their  pelts  was 
a  marvel.  Fairly  jerking  them  out  of  their 
hides,  he  flung  gray  skin  one  way  and  blue 
carcass  the  other.  The  task  was  a  small 
one  and  quickly  over.  This  done,  he  break- 
fasted to  a  quart  of  boiled  snow  and  a 
pound  of  broiled  moose  steak,  lit  his  bone 
pipe  and  fell  back  in  his  hollow-log  chair 
and  lost  himself  in  a  deep,  silent  reverie. 

The  scenes  of  the  old  days  all  came  troop- 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  31 

ing  back  over  the  back  track  in  regular 
order.  The  day  and  night  in  the  tree;  the 
rescue;  the  warm  cabin;  the  nursing  back 
to  life;  the  partnership  in  the  mine,  and 
then  the  quarrel.  Jason  had  laughed  at  him, 
then  tried  to  reason  with  him ;  but  Ben  was 
stubborn,  and  when  the  futility  of  further 
argument  became  apparent,  Jason  insisted 
on  giving  him  all  the  dust — the  joint  prod- 
uct of  their  toiling  and  freezing  and  starv- 
ing in  the  frozen  hole  on  the  "  Broken 
Bone."  That  was  three  months  ago.  Now 
here  he  was  again,  this  time  alone ! 

With  Jason,  his  one  friend  and  com- 
panion gone,  he  felt  himself  helplessly  at 
the  mercy  of  whatever  cruel  fate  might 
have  in  store  for  him,  with  not  as  much  as 
one  single  word  in  parting  left  to  cheer  him. 

And  then  Ben  remembered  a  woodcraft 
injunction  that  was  a  law  with  Jason 
Sands:  "Never  leave  camp  without  some 
word  left  behind  in  parting."  It  was  a 
safety  measure,  and  one  never  to  be  vio- 
lated where  the  atmosphere  of  death  per- 
meated every  breath  one  breathed,  and 
where  every  life  was  a  law  unto  itself. 

" Maybe  he  did,  then,"  he  reflected  hope- 
fully. Animated  with  this  straw  hope,  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  a  hurried 
search  of  the  old  camp.  He  had  not  far  to 
look.  Beaching  under  the  lower  (Jason's) 
bunk,  which  was  wider  than  the  one  above, 
Jie  drew  forth  a  large  bundle  of  letters, 


32  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

papers,  etc.,  comprising  a  collection  of 
many  documents  not  unfamiliar  to  him,  ex- 
cept, that,  tucked  under  the  rawhide  rope 
on  the  outside,  was  a  smaller  package, 
across  the  entire  length  of  which  was  writ- 
ten, simply:  "Ben,"  in  the  unmistakable 
hand  of  Jason  Sands.  It  proved  to  be  a 
letter,  and  it  read : 

"On  the  Broken  Bone, 

"April  22nd,  1910. 
"Benjamin  B.  Page, 

"Dog  Cove,  Alaska." 
"My  dear  old  pard,  and  brother: 

"I  am  leaving  you,  Ben,  forever.  I  am 
leaving  the  Broken  Bone,  the  gold,  the 
wolves  and  the  frost,  and  I  am  running 
away.  All  I  have  left  behind  belongs  to  you. 
I  hate  to  leave  you  in  this  way,  but  there 
are  things  we  have  to  do.  It  has  been  lone- 
some, Ben,  since  you  went  back  on  me,  and 
I  have  thought  of  so  many  things  that  were 
but  dead  memories  of  the  bitter  past.  I 
have  thought,  and  worked,  and  fought,  and 
worried  through  the  long,  cold  months 
alone;  now  I  am  tired  of  it  all,  and  I  am 
going  to  say  goodbye. 

"I  have  stood  it  as  long  as  I  can— this 
frozen  and  whited  hell — now  I  am  going- 
back  under  the  sunshine  where  the  roses 
bloom,  and  where  it  will  be  less  trouble  to 
dig  a  grave.  I  am  sorry  it  must  be  so,  old 
boy,  for  I  once  tried  to  help  you,  and  you 
know  we  were  a  help  to  each  other  and  only 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  33 

quarreled  once;  but  I  know  you,  like  all 
the  others,  have  turned  against  me.  Besides, 
you  want  to  stay  for  the  gold,  so  I  am  going 
to  slip  quietly  away.  Fear  not  for  me,  Ben, 
should  you  ever  think  of  the  old  times  and 
me.  Take  care  of  yourself,  for  life  is  a 
transient  and  fleeting  thing.  Nothing  shall 
happen  to  me  that  need  cause  you  pain,  but 
I  shall  always  think  of  you. 

"The  mine  is  yours;  I  am  done  with  it. 
I  found  it  and  gave  half  of  it  to  you  for  I 
liked  you  and  wanted  company.  Also  I 
found  you,  as  you  will  recall ;  and  if  I  helped 
you  when  you  needed  a  hand,  make  me  a 
silent  promise  now:  Should  you  ever  make 
a  strike  here,  and  I  know  the  Bone  has  a 
pocket  if  only  you  can  locate  it,  promise  me 
you  will  try  to  forget  your  childish  anger 
and  come  out  into  the  world  and  help  me 
find  my  boy.  If  it  turns  out  that  I  am 
never  heard  from,  Ben,  will  you  not  try  to 
find  him  and  tell  him  all  my  story  that  you 
are  now  about  to  learn  from  me  ?  Tell  him 
how  I  fought  out  the  fight,  living  only  for 
Mm,  that  I  might  find  him  and  teach  him  of 
the  ways  wherein  I  have  grown  wise. 

"Tell  him  of  the  long  winter  nights  and 
of  the  weary,  hungry  days.  Tell  him  of  the 
fang-beasts  of  the  forests  and  of  the  fang- 
beasts  of  civilization.  Say  to  him,  that  his 
father  did  not  desert  him — the  truth — but 
that  it  was  life  or  death  with  me  and  that 
I  had  to  go.  I  chose  to  prolong  my  life  that 


34  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

I  might  help  in  the  Great  Revolution — help 
hasten  the  day  when  all  mankind  shall  be 
one  mighty  phalanx  of  peaceful  workers 
and  happy  brotherhood,  singing  with  the 
god  of  love  in  a  reunited  and  fearless  world. 
Tell  him  that  I  love  him,  Ben,  that  I  would 
crush  him  to  my  breast,  would  plead  with 
him,  aye,  that  I  would  die  for  him;  but  he 
is  gone  from  me  now,  is  lost  in  the  crowd— 
in  the  swirling,  insane  mob — and  I  may  live 
to  see  him,  alas,  never  more. 

"I  loved  my  boy,  Ben,  and  I  love  him 
still.  Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it  over 
again — think  back  down  the  dead  years  that 
are  gone — I  can  see  his  little  happy  face 
alight  with  joy  and  laughter,  and  the  frousy 
head  of  red,  silken  curls  shaking  in  the  sun- 
light to  the  patter  of  his  chubby  feet.  In 
fancy  once  again  I  feel  the  tiny,  soft  hands 
pulling  at  my  face,  or  patting  my  shoulder 
at  end  of  day;  and  the  sparkling  eyes  of 
just  this  morning,  now  ablink  with  sleepy 
things  and  ready  for  pillow  and  the  little 
evening  prayer. 

"I  have  not  been  happy,  Ben,  since  the 
damned  authorities  took  our  home  away. 
(Home,  did  I  say?  Yes,  it  was  a  home,  the 
kind  of  home  a  lone,  helpless  boy  could 
make  for  a  more  lone  and  helpless  babe.) 
And  then  they  took  my  child  away  also. 
Tore  him  from  me  with  the  aid  of  the  'law!' 
This,  after  I  had  rescued  him  from  the 
'Goodwill  Farm/  where  that  she  hell-bird 
had  decreed  that  he  must  go. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  35 

"Then  I  cursed  the  law,  Ben.  The  law 
that  stabbed  me  in  the  back;  the  law  that 
smote  me  with  a  mailed  fist;  the  law  that 
murdered  my  every  hope  with  the  murder 
of  my  baby's  mother — the  law  that  robbed 
me  of  my  birthright  and  my  love— that 
blotted  out  my  home. 

"Since  then  we  have  drifted  apart.  I 
could  not  find  my  boy,  though  I  have 
searched  the  world  over.  It  is  the  one  bat- 
tle in  which  I  have  failed. 

"I  could  not  get  to  tell  you  of  these 
things  before,  for  I  did  not  wish  to  cause 
you  pain;  but  the  bereavement  has  become 
more  than  I  can  bear,  and  I  feel  a  sense 
of  helplessness  after  all  my  long,  vain 
search,  and  I  want  my  boy  to  know. 

"Call  my  son,  Ben,  and  tell  him  all  my 
story.  Somewhere  among  the  crashing 
ruins  of  Capitalism's  ever  falling  wrecks 
you  may  find  him,  and  perchance,  the  little 
pat-a-cake  hands  of  yesterday  are  now  feed- 
ing some  grim  iron  monster  in  the  mills  or 
on  the  steel  rails  of  wage-slavery.  No 
longer  is  he  the  dimpled  babe  of  tender 
years,  but  the  handsome  youth  unfolding 
into  ripe  young  manhood.  Somewhere  sub- 
merged in  the  depths  of  their  social  jungle 
they  have  him,  and  I  fear  for  him,  Ben. 
There  were  none  to  fear  for  me. 

"There  were  none  to  guide  my  footsteps 
in  the  ways  of  wisdom,  and  so  I  made  the 
blunders.  When  I  should  have  been  learn- 


36  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

ing  the  science  of  life  I  was  being  driven 
among  the  gears.  When  I  fainted  at  my 
ill-appointed  task  they  scourged  me  with  the 
lash  of  hunger,  and  when  I  paused  to  dream 
of  my  lost  childhood  they  called  me  lazy 
and  a  shirk.  So  I  sweat  my  blood  for  my 
masters,  while  their  pampered  sons  and 
daughters  basked  in  the  sweet  southern  sun- 
shine ;  on  the  palm  beaches  at  the  seashore, 
or  in  the  mountains  among  the  fragrant 
breezes  and  the  green,  shady  forests. 

"Call  my  son,  Ben,  for  wisdom  only  may 
we  leave  behind.  Call  him  and  teach  him 
love  and  life,  and  the  new  liberty  that  is  to 
be.  Teach  him  the  secret  of  health,  and 
woodcraft,  and  how  to  till  the  soil.  Help 
him  in  the  building  of  strength  and  beauty ; 
for  the  morning  of  his  day  is  come  and 
there  is  work  to  do  that  we  must  leave  un- 
finished. You  told  me  once  that  you  could 
never  repay  me  the  debt  you  owed  me  for 
saving  your  life.  You  can  pay  it  a  million 
times,  Ben,  if  only  you  will  hear  my  voice. 
It  is  not  me  to  whom  you  owe  the  debt,  but 
to  yourself.  When  you  have  been  true  to 
yourself  you  will  have  done  your  duty  to 
your  fellowmen.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
debt  and  credit.  There  is  but  robbery  and 
injustice. 

"I  would  teach  and  guide  my  son,  and 
help  him  over  the  unsmooth  trails,  for 
many  dangers  lurk  hidden  along  the  whited 
ways.  It  is  not  to  dodge  the  pitfalls  into 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  37 

which  I  fell  that  I  would  teach  him,  nor 
would  I  have  you  perfume  the  bottomless 
pits  of  poverty,  whence  arise  the  unsweet 
smells  that  profane  the  very  breath  of  life : 
but  I  would  have  him  learn  to  damn  and 
forsake  the  outlived  codes  and  creeds  of 
a  dead,  and  archaic  past;  fill  up  and  destroy 
the  polluting  cesspools  of  their  social  hells, 
making  a  fairer  and  a  safer  way. 

"I  have  gone  the  route  alone.  I  have 
done  the  best  I  knew.  There  is  much  I  have 
done,  and  much  I  might  have  done ;  the  day 
is  waning  now  with  my  work  still  just  be- 
gun. The  structure  is  incomplete  and  the 
frost  of  life's  winter  is  in  my  hair.  At 
the  prime  of  life  I  am  an  old  man!  It  is 
not  that  I  am  old,  Ben,  but  that  the  task 
is  old.  My  years  are  few  enough,  but  those 
years  have  all  been  overtime  years.  The 
years  they  crowded  into  me  and  the  life 
they  crowded  out  of  me.  They  speeded  up 
the  machine,  and  up,  in  turn,  the  machine 
speeded  me.  The  l truth'  thev  taught  to  me 
I  later  learned  to  be  a  lie.  The  while  they 
sang  to  me  of  'freedom,'  thev  shackled  me 
a  slave.  The  'liberty'  they  bragged  about 
I  found  was  only  on  paper,  and  burns 
vellow  with  sulphurous  smells  on  the 
Fourth  of  July;  and  the  only  liberty  I  can 
boast  is  liberty  to  starve. 

"Call  my  son,  Ben,  for  Reason's  torch 
shall  more  than  golden  glory  light  the  fu- 
ture where  the  past  was  blind. 


38  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"Knowledge  is  good  to  have,  Ben,  but 
Truth  is  crowning  glory.  Knowledge  is 
not  always  truth,  but  truth  is  always  knowl- 
edge. The  error  of  the  race  lies  not  in  that 
men  know  too  little,  but  that  tliey  knoiv  too 
much  that  is  not  true.  The  greatest  truths 
are  yet  untold,  and  the  greatest  force  in 
life  is  the  all-conquering  power  of  love. 
The  most  blessed  thing  in  life  is  love,  for 
love  is  peace  and  acquiescence.  The  great- 
est crime  is  the  crime  of  teaching  a  lie. 
Poverty  is  a  crime,  and  profit  is  the  cause 
of  crime.  Ignorance  is  the  cause  of  pov- 
erty; slavery  is  the  cause  of  ignorance; 
false  teaching  is  worse  than  ignorance,  and 
falsehood  is  taught  for  profit! 

"  'Tis  sad  to  learn  at  twilight  that  all 
day  long  we  toiled  to  build  upon  the  sand; 
and  sadder  still  at  twilight  of  life  to  learn 
that  all  of  life  had  been  no  more  than  but  a 
baneful  lie. 

"All  they  made  me  learn  at  such  fright- 
ful cost  I  have  had  to  unlearn  again.  The 
years  I  spent  in  training  mind  were  years 
of  waste  to  me,  for  they  were  cultivating 
brains  to  sell  like  cabbages  are  raised  for 
market.  Three  times  a  year,  Ben,  with  my 
labor  I  built  a  home,  living  the  while  in  a 
dirty,  rented  shack.  But  the  homes  I  built 
were  for  the  masters  and  they  were  built, 
like  my  education,  to  sell.  The  'Labor 
Market,'  this  sort  of  thing  is  called — the 
process  of  buying  and  selling  brains!  The 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  39 

traffic  still  flourishes,  for  youth  is  full  of 
optimism  and  hope;  and  the  same  old  lie 
they  crammed  me  with  they're  teaching 
still. 

"  'Hands  on  vests,'  the  sign  boards  in 
their  windows  read,  and  in  their  news- 
papers their  ads  were  many.  'Hands  on 
vests,'  'hands  on  shirts,'  and  'mill  hands,' 
were  common  calls  for  help,  but  never  did 
they  advertise  for  brains.  They  were  wise 
— the  bread-masters — they  knew  the  brains 
would  have  to  come  along  too,  a  sort  of 
'boot'  thrown  in  for  good  measure  along 
with  the  'hands'  that  must  be  worn  out  for 
profit.  The  brains  were  a  part  of  the  deal, 
and  all  the  deals  were  made,  arbitrarily,  by 
tlie  masters! 

"Hands  on  vests,  indeed!  And  hands  on 
plows,  too.  Hands  on  shoes ;  hands  on  coats, 
bread,  homes  and  all.  Fashioning  the 
world's  wealth  into  perfect  things  of  use, 
while  the  hands  of  the  masters  of  wage- 
slavery  were  ever  busy,  not  on  'vests,'  but 
at  the  throats  and  in  the  pockets  of  their 
worshiping,  submissive  hirelings. 

"Think  of  it,  Ben!  Upon  this  auction 
block  of  human  souls  I  stood,  blind  and 
dumb,  like  horned  cattle  are  marketed,  and 
watched  them  traffic  in  my  wealth  of  man- 
hood— my  hands,  mv  brains,  my  labor — 
verily,  my  life  was  but  a  commodity,  and 
for  all  this  they  loaned  me  back  my  board 
and  clothes.  I  say  loaned,  because  my 


40  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

wages  were  only  so  much  loaned  money 
which  had  to  paid  right  back  again  into  the 
same  channels  from  which  it  came  to  me, 
for  the  necessities  of  life,  and  with  another 
profit  added  to  the  profit  on  the  wages, 
which  wages  were  so  many  drops  of  my  own 
heart's  blood. 

"Oh,  I  was  a  good  animal  until  I  awoke, 
and  I  peddled  out  my  muscle  and  my  sweat 
for  a  pauper's  chance  to  live.  They  prated 
to  me  of  'honest  labor,'  and  I  prided  myself 
in  that  I  could  do  more  work  in  a  day  than 
any  two  men  I  had  ever  known,  and  do  it 
better.  This  was  because  I  was  ignorant, 
Ben,  but  they  called  it  'thrift  and  fru- 
gality ! '  It  is  a  siren  song  they  sing  to  their 
satisfied  slaves,  which  they  call  'the  dignity 
of  honest  toil!'  They  accompanied  this  al- 
luring refrain  with  the  rhapsodic  syncopa- 
tion of  'Industry's  Merry  Hum,'  burnt 
much  red  fire  and  waved  numerous  sizes  of 
mottled  rags  made  in  sweatshops  to  befuddle 
and  awe  the  mild-eyed  herd  upon  whose 
backs  they  rode. 

"Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all!  Oh,  the  waste  of 
it  all !  Oh !  the  crime — the  unspeakable,  un- 
pardonable, damnable  crime — of  this 
thrice  damned  mockery:  their  'Christian 
Civilization ! ' 

"And  then  there  was  Erma!  Erma,  the 
beautiful,  the  pure  and  the  true.  Erma, 
with  her  warm,  red  lips  and  her  fairy 
tresses.  Erma,  the  light  of  a  new  world  to 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  41 

me,  the  living  water  of  youth,  and  love,  and 
feminine  sweetness.  Erma,  the  queen  of 
my  dreamland  wherein  bloomed  roses  ever- 
lasting. And  mingled  with  the  meadow 
smells,  her  perfumed  breath  upon  my 
cheek,  where,  in  subdued  chorus,  cricket- 
song  and  frog-pond  melodies  sped  the  fad- 
ing day  at  twilight's  peaceful  hour,  we 
pledged  a  tryst  of  love  that  Erma,  my  dear- 
est Erma  carried  to  a  virgin's  grave. 

"It  was  the  rath  outbursting  of  a  purer 
love  than  which  this  world  has  never 
known,  away  back  there  among  the  dear 
hills  of  old  New  Hampshire,  Ben,  in  the 
long  ago. 

"Erma  was  a  farmer's  daughter  and  we 
lived  near  together.  In  school  she  used  to 
hold  her  slate  so  I  could  see  and  helped  me 
with  my  lessons.  We  pranked  as  only 
lovers  will,  in  all  the  honeyed  lore  of  youth- 
ful lovecraft,  rich  and  rare  from  Love's  un- 
published story.  For  every  teacher's  rigid 
rule  she  knew  a  cunning  ruse ;  and  I  've  seen 
her  miss  in  spelling  just  to  keep  me  at  the 
head.  Also  she  knew  all  the  secret  things 
that  Mother  Nature  hides  from  city  folk, 
and  all  the  shady  glades  wherein  the  wild 
flowers  grew  were  known  to  her. 

"She  could  find  the  coolest  springs;  and 
often  when  we  used  to  romp  the  woods  to- 
gether, she'd  take  some  hidden  trail  among 
the  aromatic  verdure,  where,  with  breezes 
purled  with  bird-song  overhead  and  fox- 


42  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

glove  blooming  underfoot,  we'd  wile  away 
to  one  more  mossy  glen,  there  to  tell  the 
things  that  only  lovers  know. 

"And  then  came  the  crash!  A  bolt  of 
lightning  from  the  clear  sunshine !  The  sun 
went  out!  The  moon  went  out!  The  stars 
hid  their  faces  in  shame !  Of  course  it  was 
ignorance,  that,  together  with  false-teach- 
ing, backed  by  self-interest,  it  is  ever  so. 
The  secret  was  out  at  last!  We  were 
'caught,'  that's  what  they  called  it,  and  so, 
an  illiterate,  wrathful  mother  proceeded  to 
vent  her  savage  fury  on  her  youthful  off- 
spring. Suspicion  had  long  been  growing, 
and  now  she  would  have  to  own  up!  We 
had  thought  to  be  forgiven  when  the  time 
came,  but  we  were  lame  in  our  reckoning. 
We  were  unschooled  in  the  mercenary  arti- 
fices of  match-making  mothers.  'Whom 
God  hath  joined  together'  suddenly  be- 
came an  alien  injunction.  That  'marriages 
are  made  in  Heaven'  was  weak  defense 
against  the  more  practical  theory  of  dollars 
and  cents.  So  they  proceeded  to  tear  us 
asunder  and  our  hearts  asunder.  They 
descended  upon  us  and  snatched  her  from 
me  as  a  she  wolf  tears  a  mother  ptarmigan 
from  the  nest  of  her  coming  brood. 

"Erma  had  called  to  me  through  the 
parlor  window  and  I  knew  the  hour  was 
come.  There  was  the  ring  of  confidence  in 
her  sweet  voice,  mingled  with  just  the  faint- 
est note  of  challenge  for  their  benefit,  and 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  43 

all  pitched  in  a  sad,  unnatural  key,  hysteri- 
cally clarioned  with  passionate  appeal,  and 
modest  but  thrilling  with  righteous  victory 
—a  victory  she  believed  with  all  her  heart 
was  now  at  hand.  Oh,  she  was  the  very  soul 
of  optimism,  was  this  sunny-haired  spirit 
of  the  hills.  Alas  for  the  optimism  of 
innocence ! 

"The  magnitude  of  the  situation  and  the 
task  devolving  upon  me  for  the  moment 
unnerved  me.  At  sound  of  her  voice  my 
heart  stopped,  sank,  and  then  fluttered  up 
into  my  throat,  sending  the  boiling  blood 
to  the  very  sight  of  my  eyes  in  a  blinding 
shower  of  white-hot  meteors.  But  it  was 
only  for  a  second,  and  when  I  rallied  and 
strode  into  the  room  I  was  as  calm  as  a  tree. 

"In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  old 
Bart  Tannerhill,  ox-goad  in  hand,  the  irate 
she  dragon,  fists  on  hips  beside  him;  while 
cowering  in  a  corner,  her  big,  soft  eyes 
aswim  with  tears,  crouched  Erma,  my  child- 
wife.  At  sight  of  me  she  bounded  to  her 
feet  like  a  wounded  fawn,  swept  through 
them  like  a  sunbeam  and  into  my  arms. 
God !  How  I  loved  her,  my  darling,  in  that 
prophetic  moment!  I  can  hear  her  heart 
now,  Ben,  as  it  beat  wildly  in  her  terror 
against  my  breast.  I  can  see  again  the  up- 
turned face  and  trembling  lips,  as  they  flew 
to  meet  mine  in  the  trustful  embrace  she 
gave  me. 

"  'Tell  them,   dear,'  she  said  amid  her 


44  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

sobbing,  'tell  them  all;  I  have,  and  they 
won't  believe  me.' 

"And  I  did  tell  them.  And  when  I  had 
finished  they  believed  me,  for,  although  I 
dreaded  the  ordeal,  once  begun  it  was  the 
happiest  moment  of  my  life.  In  that  mo- 
ment I  was  a  king! — a  Hercules— a  god!  I 
knew  we  were  right,  and  in  that  right  I  was 
invincible.  I  could  have  won  a  world. 
God,  aye,  a  million  Gods  could  not  have 
phased  me.  There  she  was,  my  natural 
mate,  clinging  to  me  for  protection.  Upon 
me  she  had  cast  her  very  life.  Her  every 
ounce  of  unrestrained  womanhood,  pulsat- 
ing the  purity  of  the  great  love  and  trust 
of  her,  and  it  was  all  for  me.  I  lived  for 
her  and  she  for  me.  I  was  ready  to  fight 
for  her,  I  gladly  would  have  died  for  her, 
or  I  would  have  gone  to  hell  for  her !  Who 
would  not? 

"Here  was  life.  Here  was  womanhood. 
Here  was  happiness  and  love  and  com- 
panionship with  youth  and  beauty,  one 
woman  who  was  real,  and  whole,  and  true. 

"It  was  at  this  point  that  the  hand  of  a 
jealous  rival  dealt  his  cowardly  blow.  I 
was  standing  with  my  back  to  the  door, 
oblivious  to  the  danger  that  lurked  behind, 
until  Erma  screamed  and  made  as  if  to 
spring.  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  her 
features  wore.  She  had  seen,  but  not  in 
time.  Some  would  have  fainted;  but  not 
she.  My  arms  were  about  her  when  she 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  45 

gave  the  alarm,  but  she  freed  herself  with 
the  agility  and  strength  of  an  acrobat.  Giv- 
ing me  an  heroic  jerk  forward  to  save  me, 
she  tried  to  spring  at  the  fiend.  I  turned 
just  as  a  flash  of  lightning  and  deafening 
roar  of  thunder  crashed  down  upon  me,  into 
me  and  through  me.  It  was  all  done  in  a 
second's  time,  but  in  that  brief  space  the 
heavens  and  earth  burst  and  fell  together; 
I  was  crushed  under  the  debris  like  an  egg- 
shell, and  then  I  knew  no  more. 

"When  again  I  knew,  I  was  gliding 
smoothly  through  space.  All  the  stars  were 
in  motion,  diving,  shooting,  rising  and  mov- 
ing all  about  me.  Next  I  was  aware  of  a  cool, 
soft  touch  like  snowflakes  in  summer  fall- 
ing gently  on  my  forehead.  Then,  faintly 
at  first,  came  low,  tremulous  sounds  creep- 
ing into  my  ears,  sounds  that  were  mellow 
and  endearing.  Never  was  music  wrought 
of  mortal  hand  to  match  such  as  this.  How 
long  I  was  listening  to  the  far-awav  mur- 
murings  I  never  knew.  Presentlv  I  dared 
to  open  mv  eves,  just  the  merest  peep;  it 
was  all  I  could  do.  The  lids  would  not 
obey  mv  will  to  open  them  more.  I  floated 
through  the  silverv  starlight  gradually  be- 
coming conscious  of  a  sweet,  radiant  vision. 
It  was  neither  the  stars,  the  moon,  nor  the 
sunshine.  It  was  grander  than  all  these 
rolled  together.  It  was  a  heavenly  vision. 
T  fhon^nt  T  was  in  heaven,  and  that  angels 
were  ministering  to  some  silly  whim  of  my 


46  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

ephemeral  desires.  I  could  see  more  plainly 
as  my  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  light, 
and  I  saw  that  the  vision  was  feminine  and 
very  near  me.  Tenderly  the  beautiful  white 
face  bent  down  and  laid  fuzzy,  moist  lips 
upon  my  mouth.  I  tried  to  raise  my  arms 
to  draw  her  to  me,  but  they  were  arms,  not 
of  flesh  and  muscle,  but  of  stone!  Also,  I 
tried  to  give  back  the  kisses  in  generous 
measure;  but  again  the  command  of  my 
will  was  disobeyed.  My  tongue  was  on  fire, 
but  my  lips  were  frozen !  Then  my  eyelids 
became  mysteriously  leaden  and  scraped 
cruelly  down  over  the  eyeballs  shutting  out 
the  stellar  glory  and  her  unearthly  beauty. 
All  was  black  night  again.  The  sweet 
sounds  died  away;  the  soft  caresses  ceased, 
and  I  toppled  over  a  deep,  dark  void  and 
fell  down,  down,  down,  into  the  unstarred 
night  of  eternity. 

"But  the  sweet  vision  in  some  way  found 
me  out,  and  came  the  radiant  face  through 
the  black  night,  dispelling  the  last  shadow 
with  her  coming,  like  the  dissolving  views 
of  the  stereopticon.  The  cool  hand  was 
laid  again  on  nrf  forehead,  and  my  icen  lips 
were  being  melted  with  her  hot,  moist 
kisses.  The  warm  sunshine  came  and  fell 
in  golden  flood  upon  her  billowy  hair.  I 
still  thought  I  was  in  heaven,  and  that  this 
fair  creature  was  the  goddess  Aurora  come 
to  bring  thp,  morning  of  the  Great  Day. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  47 

"Then  came  the  soft  murmurings  again. 
The  sounds  growing  louder  and  more  dis- 
tinct with  the  clearer  sense  of  returning 
consciousness. 

"' Jason!  O  Jason,  dear,'  someone  was 
calling,  someone  far  yonder  on  the  hillside, 
so  faintly  and  distant  seemed  the  voice.  I 
was  scarcely  sure  I  heard  at  first,  but  as 
the  calling  continued  and  my  ears  took  on 
the  repeated  resonance,  I  began  to  under- 
stand. I  made  a  mighty  effort  to  throw  off 
the  leaden  weights  from  my  eyes,  and  the 
dizzy  stupor  from  my  feverish  brain,  and 
did  succeed  partly,  when  with  my  returning 
sight  came  the  most  excruciating  pain.  But 
in  the  next  instant  the  r>ain  was  forgotten. 
The  mist  had  cleared.  It  was  Erma!  She 
was  bending  over  me,  crying  over  me,  pray- 
ing for  me  and  calling  to  me  to  come  back 
to  life  and  to  her  again. 

"It  was  her  blessed  hand  that  had  bathed 
my  forehead.  How  may  I  describe  the 
scene  of  jov  that  followed  my  awakening! 
It  were  profanity  to  attempt  it.  Such  glad- 
ness never  shone  through  the  soul  of 
woman.  It  was  a  joy  not  of  earth.  I  tried 
to  smile  and  tell  her  with  my  eyes  that  I 
knew  and  would  live.  She  understood,  and 
with  fingers  tearing  at  her  breast,  her  eyes 
streaming  with  tears,  she  burst  into  a  par- 
oxysm of  hysterical  laughing,  crying  and 
screeching,  that  was  the  very  effervescence 


48  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

of  the  insanity  of  human  delight.  The  dear 
child  was  mad  and  overwhelmed  with  joy. 

"I  had  heen  shot!  shot  in  the  back  by  a 
cowardly,  moral  pervert,  and  without  warn- 
ing. The  lead  had  torn  clean  through  me, 
splashing  my  blood  in  Erma's  face  and 
hair.  She  had  thought  me  killed,  but  she 
would  never  give  up  in  her  effort  to  make 
me  live.  It  was  in  the  evening  just  at  sun- 
set, and  when  I  regained  consciousness,  it 
was  at  sunrise  the  following  morning.  Oh, 
the  dear  child,  Ben !  She  never  left  my  side 
during  all  that  lapse  of  time,  but  had  worn 
herself  out  working  and  worrying  over  me 
to  save  my  life.  When  at  last  the  victory 
was  won  and  T  opened  my  eves  and  looked 
nt  her  and  smiled,  she  saw  that  I  knew.  Tt 
was  too  much  for  her  overwrought  condi- 
tion. She  became  hysterical  and  fell  in  a 
swoon  by  the  bedside. 

"In  the  excitement  of  the  quarrel  with 
the  Tannerhills  over  our  secret,  we  had  not 
noticed  a  carriage  drive  ur>,  and  when  the 
shambling  slouch  of  Pert  Perry's  ape-like 
hulk  sloughed  into  the  hallwav  to  listen  to 
it  all,  he  had  completed  the  slinking  ven- 
ture without  noise  and  unobserved.  Erma, 
having  asked  me  to  tell  them  all,  I  had  just 
wound  up  by  saying,  defiantly,  that  we  were 
now  man  and  wife,  and  that  I  would  pro- 
tect her  with  my  life  and  that  nothing 
should  come  between  us,  not  even  the  Perry 
parasites.  It  was  at  this  point  that  the 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  49 

rejected  suitor  leaped  into  the  room  and 
shoving  a  44-Colt  between  my  shoulders 
fired.  Erma  had  tried  to  give  warning,  but 
it  came  too  late. 

"The  would-be  assassin  was  never  appre- 
hended, but  he  subsequently  met  the  same 
fate  he  tried  to  settle  on  me  at  the  hands 
of  a  woman  he  had  previously  wronged — a 
poor  mill  girl  who  had  loved  him  and  sur- 
rendered her  confidence  to  him,  only  to  be 
forsaken  and  cast  aside.  From  this  she  had 
gone  down  the  line;  and  in  making  his  es- 
cape from  the  attack  on  my  life,  he  had 
fallen  into  her  hands  in  a  house  of  ill-fame, 
where  the  race  teaching  of  revenge  got  in 
its  deadly  work. 

"Erma  nursed  me  back  to  life  and  in  two 
weeks  I  was  out  again;  but  the  Tannerhills 
were  obdurate  and  set.  There  was  no  rea- 
soning with  them.  Erma  was  not  of  age, 
and  that  settled  it.  It  was  her  turn  now, 
for  her  heart  was  broken.  They  kept  her 
under  lock  and  key  as  criminals  are  kept 
in  prison.  They  made  the  minister  con- 
fess, then  got  him  kicked  out  of  church  for 
helping  us  conceal  our  secret  marriage. 
You  see,  Ben,  it  was  a  devilish  violation  of 
the  creeds,  the  codes  and  the  conventions. 
It  was  the  rankest  heresy  of  the  accepted 
law  of  private  ownership  of  parent  in  child 
until  the  child  is  old  enough  to  be  grand- 
parent. Health,  strength  and  youth  stood 
for  nothing.  Beauty  stood  for  nothing. 


50  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

Love  stood  for  nothing.  Even  life  itself 
stood  for  nothing.  Only  the  codes,  the 
creeds  and  the  conventions  stood  for  some- 
thing—these and  the  dividends  that  were 
to  accrue  from  the  sale  of  their  beautiful 
daughter  into  white  slavery,  for  this  only 
is  what  marriage  can  mean  where  love  does 
not  exist,  but  where  the  motive  for  such 
prostitution  is  goldv 

"Ah!  we  had  not  consulted  the  authority. 
We  had  not  drawn  a  check  to  the  law.  We 
had  not  harkened  to  the  merry  jingle  of 
clinking  coin.  But  we  had  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  therein  read  the  old,  old 
story.  We  had  ripened  in  the  summer  of 
each  other's  sunshine.  We  knew  we  loved 
and  wanted  each  other.  In  our  natural  de- 
sire we  saw  only  success  and  we  never  con- 
sidered the  possibility  of  failure.  We  had 
heard  Love  calling  to  us  through  the  dawn 
of  youthful  glory  and  we  had  gone  straight 
to  the  goal.  Into  our  plan  of  life  we  had 
not  invited  death.  In  our  house  of  love 
we  made  no  room  for  hate.  Heaven  was  of 
our  own  making,  and  when  we  had  built  it 
we  had  nothing  left  with  which  to  build  a 
hell.  Or  else  we  had  forgotten  to  build  a 
hell.  Perhaps  we  were  too  ignorant,  too 
happy,  or  too  young  for  that.  Possibly  we 
were  not  sufficiently  well  civilized  as  yet. 
Anyway,  as  I  said  before,  we  had  heard 
the  voice  of  Love  calling  out  to  us  from  the 
wilderness  of  soul-starvation,  and  we  had 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  51 

gone  to  meet  it,  and  we  did  meet  it.  We 
met  it  in  the  same  good  old  way  that  true 
lovers  have  ever,  and  will  ever  continue  to 
meet  it.  Yes,  we  met  and  knew  it,  basked 
our  souls  in  it — even  worshiped  it,  in  spite 
of  code,  creed  and  convention.  In  spite  of 
their  fearsome  wailings  and  their  tyranni- 
cal dictums.  In  spite  of  their  clanking 
marionettes,  their  stereotyped  heavens, 
their  horned  devils  and  their  orthodox  hells. 

"Yes,  Ben,  they  murdered  Erma,  my 
Erma.  The  loss  of  her,  coupled  with  the 
shame  of  their  social  crime,  drove  me  stark 
mad.  For  years  I  drifted  in  a  daze  of  men- 
tal bewilderment.  My  'friends'  sneered  at 
me,  ridiculed  me  and  tried  in  all  manner 
of  ways  to  discredit  and  disgrace  me. 
Whenever  they  dared,  they  took  advantage 
of  me  to  further  their  own  sordid  ends; 
and  when  I  thrashed  them  for  their  double 
dealing  they  ran  away  into  safety  to  stab 
me  in  the  back  with  their  javelins  of 
slander. 

"It  was  then  that  the  panderers  and  the 
demagogs  would  appear.  With  each  suc- 
cessive turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  they 
came  or  went  as  the  case  might  be,  hanging 
onto  my  broad  shoulders  whenever  I  was 
prosperous,  and  deserting  me  to  a  man  in 
my  hour  of  adversity.  They  all  turned 
against  me,  Ben,  even  my  brothers  turned 
against  me  and  shamefully  malinged  and 
scandalized  me,  calling  me  black  sheep  and 
trying  to  magnify  their  own  puny  lives  by 
heaping  odium  upon  mine. 


52  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"So  I  learned  that,  in  a  society  enslaved 
under  a  system  of  economic  strife  and  self- 
interest,  there  can  be  little  friendship 
worthy  of  the  confidence  of  honest  men  and 
women.  After  that,  I  slipped  down  into 
the  scathing,  festering  abyss  of  this  graft- 
ing commercialism  in  a  desperate  effort  to 
drown  the  memory  of  an  assassinated  love 
among  the  shifting  sands  of  hived  humanity 
— inhumanity — gone  mad  for  gain. 

"Nature  had  been  kind  to  me,  Ben,  as 
well  you  know.  Over  well  built  and  thewed 
like  the  things  that  roam  the  wild,  I  knew 
not  fear,  and  the  poisoned  fang  held  its 
terrors,  but  not  for  me.  I  could  take  the 
world  by  the  horns,  as  it  were,  and  wrestle 
it  to  the  bent  of  my  will.  Also,  I  could  hold 
my  own  in  a  fight;  but  I  was  poor,  and  all 
my  people  were  poor;  so  this,  Ben,  was  the 
secret  of  the  crash.  Had  I  been  rich  like 
the  Perrvs.  all  would  have  been  well  with 
the  Tannerhills.  Born  up  among  the  stars 
on  the  snow-capped  crest  of  the  White 
Mountains,  we  knew  not  the  crooked  ways 
of  the  taloned  financier,  and  so  we  were  of 
plebian  cast!  We  were  not  of  the  blue 
blood  tribe  like  the  saffron-faced  and  saf- 
fron-livered  Perrys.  We  were  just  common 
dirt  like  the  Tannerhills.  Producers — till- 
ers of  the  soil — were  we.  The  language  of 
the  Stock  Exchange  were  Sanscrit  to  us: 
but  we  knew  how  to  do  the  useful  things  of 
life,  and  life's  labor,  as  we  knew  it,  was  a 
joy,  and  we  were  happy. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  53 

"But  plain  mountain  dirt  was  not  good 
enough  for  their  only  daughter.  For  such 
as  she  there  must  be  found  finer  clay !  Down 
in  the  town  men  wore  neat-looking  white 
cuffs  and  black,  shiny  foot  gear.  Also  they 
curled  their  mustaches  and  talked  fast  and 
loud.  The  pretty  girls  of  the  village  wore 
much  fine  raiment  and  worked  seldom.  This 
was  the  place  for  Erma!  Here  she  must 
become  refined  and  stately  and  dignified. 

"  'She'd  shine  in  a  ballroom  and  them 
fine  gentlemen  would  look  at  her,  I  bet,' 
her  mother  used  to  say. 

"  'Cut  out  to  be  a  lady  sich  as  don't  have 
to  work,'  old  Aunt  Ellenor  encouraged. 
But  Erma,  mind  you,  had  never  been  con- 
sulted in  the  matter  and  possessed  ideas  of 
her  own  that  she  thought  best  to  confide 
only  to  one  she  knew  she  could  trust. 

"The  banker — old  man  Perry — was  rich, 
and  this  banker  had  a  son.  It  was  for  him 
that  they  murdered  Erma,  my  Erma.  Al- 
though an  imbecile,  deformed  and  bald, 
they  had  favored  him,  implanting  hatred  in 
her  young  heart  with  such  favor.  But  he 
could  sport  many  a  white  diamond  and  held 
office  in  the  Republican  party.  Also  he 
could  get  drunk,  beastly  drunk;  and  this 
was  the  fine  gentleman  over  in  the  village 
that  tried  to  court  my  Erma,  and  whom  her 
mother  had  picked  for  her  to  wed.  For 
this  cancerous,  parasitic  offal,  they  pro- 
ceeded to  tear  us  asunder  and  from  each 
other's  love,  breaking  our  hearts — Enna's 


54  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

and  mine — and  when  it  must  have  been  all 
in  vain,  and  forever  too  late. 

"She  never  saw  her  child,  Ben,  this  little 
love  mother — this  virgin — purest  of  the 
pure.  She  never  saw  the  flowers  again! 
But  when  the  silver  clarion  rings  down  the 
pathway  of  the  future  in  Freedom's  joyous 
reveille,  there  in  the  pantheons  of  Love  and 
Truth,  and  Virtue,  shall  men  bare  their 
heads  in  reverence  and  sing  of  such  as  she, 
whose  chastity  was  not  for  price ;  whose  soul 
was  the  fountain  of  love — Humanity's  God 
— and  whose  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  the 
surge  of  maternal  grandeur. 

"When  the  news  was  brought  to  me  I 
hurried  to  her — fought  my  way  to  her. 
They  barred  the  door  on  me  and  I  went 
through  it  like  a  tornado.  I  was  no  fledg- 
ling at  twenty,  Ben,  and  wise  men  hesitated 
to  oppose  me.  But  they  would  not  let  me 
see  our  child.  They  spirited  it  away.  Of 
course  I  could  not  stay.  But  the  speck  of 
life  would  live,  and  the  fire  of  life,  virile 
with  the  surge  of  health  and  purity — the 
heritage  of  a  reciprocal  and  youthful  love 
— would  not  go  out.  They  tried  to  kill  it, 
and  still  it  lived  and  thrived.  They  starved 
it,  but  it  stayed  with  them  and  in  spite  of 
them.  Then  its  tormentors  hit  upon  a  happy 
medium ;  they  would  freeze  it  to  death !  Ah ! 
the  very  thing !  Why  had  they  not  thought 
of  so  simple  a  thing  before!  So  they  left 
it  on  a  doorstep  a  far  drive  from  home  and 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  55 

in  the  night;  but  it's  blood  was  red.  It  was 
of  that  breed.  Moreover,  and  to  help  thwart 
their  devilish  purpose  it  would  seem,  a 
winter  thaw  set  in  that  very  night;  and 
when  the  next  morning  the  good  farmer's 
wife  opened  the  door  to  sweep  back  the 
snow,  it  put  up  its  tiny  red  hands  to  'go 
to  mamma,'  and  smiled  up  at  her  like  a 
beauty  rose  dropped  in  the  snow. 

"They  were  rid  of  it  at  last,  the  brat  (so 
they  thought),  but  the  neighbors  knew! 
They  had  heard,  for  it  was  in  the  country. 

"Back  it  went  again.  Then  the  Smiths 
got  it  and  the  town  paid  its  board.  'Town 
pauper,'  it  went  down  on  the  books.  Later 
old  'Spot'  condemned  it  to  go  to  the  County 
Farm.  But  in  this  last  wanton  crime  I 
baffled  them.  Leland  had  written  at  the 
last  minute  and  I  rose  like  a  revolution.  I 
swept  them  back  and  fled  with  my  boy  on 
the  very  day  they  had  him  all  bundled  up 
to  go.  It  was  like  the  pardon  that  comes  in 
the  nick  of  time  in  the  stories  and  moving 
pictures.  It  was  chance,  mere  accident,  but 
in  that  accidental  coincidence  of  time, 
thought  and  action,  the  whole  future  course 
of  a  human  life  was  changed,  environed  and 
reconstructed. 

"But,  Ben,  I  am  wearying  you.  This 
letter  is  longer  than  I  had  planned,  and  yet 
it  is  all  too  short.  Briefly,  I  have  told  you 
the  story  I  denied  you  when  we  quarreled, 
when  you,  with  your  childish  superior  as- 


56  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

sumption  boasted  of  your  devil  charms  and 
your  ancestral  lineage,  and  called  me  names 
because  I  shrank  from  telling  the  sad 
secrets  of  my  gloomy  past.  It  is  the  story 
of  only  one  more  of  the  heart-breaking, 
home-wrecking  crimes  of  riot-ruling  Capi- 
talism. Capitalism,  the  social  criminal  of 
which  men  sing;  for  which  men  pray;  and 
for  which  men  vote.  It  is  but  one  more  of 
the  millions  of  cold-blooded  outrages  of  a 
misguided  civilization  for  which  men  shed 
their  blood;  for  which  they  fetter  their 
wives  and  children  in  slavery;  from  which 
a  nation  gasps  in  poverty,  leaving  a  pauper 
heritage  to  the  generations  yet  unborn — 
generations  destined  to  be  poorer  than  each 
predecessor — with  a  heritage  stained  with 
the  shame  of  every  unspeakable  crime  in 
the  criminal  category  since  the  race  began. 
It  is  the  story  of  how  they  broke  two  loving 
hearts.  It  is  the  story  of  two  broken  homes. 
It  is  the  true  story  of  how  they  murdered 
as  pure  and  as  holy  a  virgin  as  ever 
mothered  a  Jesus.  And  it  is  the  tale  of  the 
scattered  fragments  of  their  pious  ravage 
cast  upon  the  four  winds  of  a  groaning 
world. 

"I  have  wandered  over  the  earth  in  a 
trance.  I  have  made  friends  easily,  for 
they  could  read  the  open  book;  but  I  have 
lost  them  more  easily,  for  they  could  not 
understand. 

"My  life  and  home  ruined,  with  the  es- 
sence and  goal  of  life  destroyed,  I  fought 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON  57 

the  unequal  fight.  The  odds  were  against 
me.  The  dice  were  loaded,  and  with  the 
chasm  of  desolation  ever  yawning  before 
me,  I  have  been  but  chaff  in  the  tempest. 
To-night,  dear  old  pal,  I  am  lonely,  lonely, 
and  sad  and  blue.  I  am  thinking  of  my 
sweetheart — my  one  love — who  sleeps  over 
the  river  and  over  the  mountains.  Far  away 
there  in  the  old  churchyard  they  laid  her. 
Under  the  weeping  willows  and  among  the 
white  stones  she's  resting  with  the  kiss  of 
blessed  peace  upon  her  brow,  and  with  the 
kiss  I  pressed  to  her  cold,  white  lips — life's 
last  love  token. 

"I  see  again  the  smile  she  gave  me  at 
the  parting.  It  was  her  last.  She  wears 
it  still.  It  was  her  answer  to  my  promise, 
Ben,  the  promise  I  have  kept  for  twenty 
years,  and  which  shall  not  now  be  broken. 
Bless  her  trusting  soul!  She  had  faith 
that  we  shall  meet  again  among  the  flowers 
and  the  wildwood  in  a  new  home  among  the 
stars.  Who  shall  blame  her  for  this  faith? 
It  was  her  early  teaching,  even  as  it  was 
mine.  I  will  keep  that  promise,  Ben,  and 
if,  when  I  go,  I  shall  find  the  dear  one  knew, 
then  I  can  meet  her  as  when  we  parted;  and 
she  shall  know  me  then  as  she  knew  me  in 
the  old  days  when  we  were  young. 

"I  will  not  desecrate  her  dear  memory 
with  a  violation  of  her  confidence.  It  was 
not  her  wish,  but  mine  that  I  make  the  sac- 
rifice. When  first  her  burning  cheek  fell 
limp  against  my  own,  her  round,  white 


58  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

arms  trembling  on  my  neck,  I  kissed  her 
in  her  shining  hair  and  spoke  the  words  that 
shall  stand  unmoved  against  the  wrath  of 
man,  and  God,  and  Heaven  and  Hell.  Here 
are  the  words,  Ben ;  say  them  over  and  over 
again,  and  if  you  live  to  grant  my  wish  and 
find  my  boy,  call  him  to  your  side  and  teach 
him  the  sacred  words  with  all  their  grand 
meaning:  ll  will  ~be  true,  I  will  ~be  true!' 

"And  now  I  long  for  the  sound  of  the 
•night  winds  through  the  treetops,  and  the 
smell  of  the  sweet  grasses  where  we  roamed 
and  sang  together.  There  lies  buried  my 
world  with  my  Erma.  White  lies  her  lily 
bosom,  whiter  than  the  white  snows  above 
it.  There  she  waits  for  me,  and  I  am  going 
home. 

"Forgive  me  for  running  away  from  you, 
Comrade,  and  now  good-bye." 

"JASON  SANDS." 

"P.  S. — Please  try  to  get  this  package 
out  on  the  down  mail  at  your  first  oppor- 
tunity. I  have  addressed  it  to  her  brother, 
who  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Leland  B.  Tanner- 
hill,  the  only  survivor  of  the  family.  You 
will  find  the  dust  to  pay  carry  and  postage 
in  a  cartridge  box  at  the  foot  of  my  bunk. 
I  have  used  your  name  as  a  return  address 
in  case  of  non-delivery,  and  should  it  come 
back  to  you,  you  preserve  it  and  turn  it 
over  to  my  boy  should  he  ever  turn  up.  His 
name  is  Quimby  Sands." 

"JASON." 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  59 


EKMA, 
THE  BELLE  OF  THE  WILD  WOOD. 

(A  Retrospection) 

Belle  of  the  Wildwood,  my  angel-haired  Erma, 

Nymph  of  the  Fountain  of  Beauty  to  me ; 
Mocking  birds  sigh  for  her  sorrows  and  murmur 
"Erma,  sweet  Erma,  the  belle  of  the  lea." 

Eyes  like  the  stars  in  their  blue-mantled  glory, 

Cheeks  like  the  roses  abloom  in  the  snow ; 
Telling  again  of  the  old  pretty  story, 
Darling  you  loved  me,  you  loved  me  I  know. 

Pictures  appear  on  the  screen  oft  returning, 
Visions  of  paradise  when  you  were  near; 

Ever  my  life  with  the  love-fires  aburning, 
Erma,  will  cherish  your  memory  dear. 

Sadly  the  moon  and  the  stars  purple  gleaming, 

Lonely  my  exile  wherever  I  roam ; 
Oft  as  of  old  I  return  in  my  dreaming — 
Tearfully  calling  she  beckons  me  home. 

Nightly  I  weep  by  the  camp-fire  aglowing, 
Whippoorwill  calls  to  his  mate  in  the  dell ; 

Driven  forever  to  wander  just  knowing, 
Erma,  I  love  you,  my  fairy-haired  belle. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  EVER  PRESENT  MENACE. 

I  have  drunk  of  the  strife 

In  the  battle  of  life 
From  the  chalice  at  Poverty's  well; 

In  the  blistering  flare 

Of  the  hell  of  despair 
I  have  seen  that  my  tongue  may  not  tell  \ 

With  the  breaking  of  the  knife,  Jason 
Sands  did  not  fall  down  to  be  eaten  by  the 
wolf-pack. 

With  the  feeling  in  his  left  hand  and  arm 
entirely  gone,  the  time  had  come  when  he 
must  either  try  for  the  final  climb,  or  else 
give  up  and  be  torn  to  pieces  alive.  To  give 
up  a  fight  once  begun  were  the  ethics  of 
weakness  and  spelt  defeat  and  death.  He 
was  not  one  of  the  giving-up  kind. 

Knowing  that  he  was  within  reach  of  the 
shelf,  and  that  only  a  thin  crust  of  ice  lay 
between  him  and  safety,  he  had  planned 
with  the  dealing  of  that  last  terrific  blow  to 
spring  for  the  final  landing,  and  at  the 
same  time  bring  the  axe  up  over  and  for- 
ward in  contact  with  the  crust  with  enough 
force  to  break  it  through.  It  was  the  act  of 
this  combination  of  spring  and  double  blow, 
that  had  thrown  the  extra  tension  on  the 
thin  steel.  It  snapped  like  glass;  but  the 
trained  will  of  a  master  mind  defied  the 

(60) 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  61 

shock,  and  as  the  ponderous  hulk  swayed 
clear  of  the  ice-wall,  it  shot  forward  and 
upward,  the  free,  right  foot  lodging  square- 
ly in  the  step  made  for  it  by  the  axe,  as 
both  axe  and  arm  to  the  elbow  crashed 
through  the  crust  of  the  crevice,  giving  him 
a  full  arm  hold  on  the  solid  rock. 

Thus  the  battle  ended  and  he  was  safe — 
for  the  night,  at  least. 

Jason  paused  in  his  new  position  and 
rested  long  enough  to  smile  down  at  the 
defeated  brutes  with  their  fiery  eyes  in  the 
darkness  there,  then  cleared  the  snow  from 
his  bracket  perch  and  took  account  of  the 
situation.  There  was  his  pack  securely 
strapped  in  its  customary  place  on  his  back. 
How  it  ever  got  there  was  beyond  him.  He 
distinctly  remembered  having  removed  and 
left  it  with  his  carbine  and  snowshoes  when 
before  that  last  drink  from  the  falls,  and 
the  memory  of  it  ended  there.  But  here  it 
was,  and  in  it  there  was  moose  meat  cut 
thin,  and  he  was  hungry.  Also  it  contained 
the  five  boxes  of  cartridges  and  his  Indian 
blanket.  But  his  Savage  was  down  there 
on  the  ice,  and  the  only  ammunition  availa- 
ble was  about  fifty  shots  for  the  Auto- 
matic. " That '11  help  some,"  he  said, 
slipping  off  the  bloody  mitten  and  feeling 
of  the  holster  at  his  hip.  He  was  silent  a 
moment,  then  fishing  a  quantity  of  the 
moose  meat  from  the  pack,  continued:  "I 
hate  to  disappoint  you,  you  patient,  saintly 


62  THE  TOECH  OF  REASON. 

dears,  for  I  know  you  must  be  hungry  after 
such,  violent  exercise;  but  I'm  not  quite 
ready  yet,  and  if  you'll  stick  around  here 
till  morning,  we'll  open  the  show  with  a 
farce  comedy,  and  I'll  sing  you  a  sweet 
lullaby  all  in  one  key,  and  one  you  forgot 
to  get  down  on  the  program." 

The  pain  in  his  foot  worried  him  not  a 
little;  but  he  was  hungry  and  spent,  and 
sick.  The  blood  creeping  back  into  the 
paralyzed  arm  felt  like  ice  water.  He  did 
not  look  a  last  time  to  see  if  the  green  fire 
balls  were  gleaming  up  at  him;  he  knew 
they  were,  without  looking.  He  would  not 
hector  them.  Wait  till  morning !  He  would 
show  them! 

The  shelf  cleared  of  snow,  and  his  un- 
thinkable repast  greedily  devoured,  though 
it  was  frozen  with  the  hardness  of  stone, 
and  with  the  Boreal  batteries  blazing  their 
Northern  Lights  above  and  the  gray  angels 
of  death  keeping  vigil  below,  he  rolled  him- 
self in  his  warm  blanket  and  slept. 

The  nights  are  long  up  under  the  North 
Star,  and  Jason's  sleep  was  not  a  peaceful 
one.  What  with  the  events  of  the  day  how 
could  one  be  expected  to  sleep  soundly! 
With  the  repose  of  the  conscious  mind,  came 
the  reign  of  the  sub-conscious,  or  dream 
mind.  Strangely  enough,  he  did  not  dream 
of  wolves — not  the  fanged  kind,  the  kind 
that  were  waiting  to  eat  him  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliff — but  he  dreamed  back  down  the 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  63 

trail  of  the  past,  with  all  the  long  train  of 
disasters  through  the  whole  horrible  laby- 
rinth of  his  chance  existence  of  crushing, 
debasing  toil. 

Dreams  with  Jason  Sands  were  no  new 
menace  to  trouble  his  peaceful  slumbers. 
When  had  he  ever  been  free  from  them! 
He  had  worked  and  worried  and  thought, 
and  fought,  and  failed!  His  brain  had  be- 
come a  veritable  perpetual  motion.  It 
would  not  stop  thinking,  and  he  could  not 
stop  it.  Asleep  or  awake  it  rambled  on  just 
the  same  in  spite  of  him.  The  machinery 
of  his  brain  seemed  like  the  machinery  of 
the  hosiery  mills,  and  the  weave  rooms,  and 
the  shoe  factories  in  which  he  had  worked. 
There,  when  his  day's  work  was  done, 
a  night  shift  w^uld  come  on  to  operate 
the  machines  in  the  factory,  as  the  night 
shift  of  demons  came  now  to  operate  the 
machinery  of  his  brain.  But  the  factories 
and  the  machines  were  owned  by  others- 
parasites  who  did  no  useful  work ;  while  his 
brain  belonged  to  him,  or  ought  to  belong 
to  him,  and  why  could  not  the  torment  cease 
now  that  he  had  rebelled  and  become  an 
exile!  Crudely,  and  in  a  vague  way,  he 
knew  the  chemistry  of  the  brain,  and  he 
knew  that  all  this  everlasting  nightmare  of 
somni-slavery  was  a  result  of  long  years  of 
servitude  in  wage-slavery  under  the  lash 
of  hunger.  Each  separate  brain  cell  had 
received  and  retained  these  weary  impres- 


64  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

sions  as  the  dry  plates  of  photography  re- 
ceive and  retain  impressions  through  the 
lens  of  the  camera.  That's  what  the  brain 
was  for — to  receive  impressions  then  to  de- 
velop and  direct  the  mind  and  body 
accordingly. 

He  would  close  his  eyes,  and  instantly  the 
power  would  come  on,  and  away  would  fly 
the  pulleys,  the  gears  and  the  belts.  An- 
other operator  would  step  in  and  work  his 
tired  brain  through  another  long  shift,  and 
things  had  gotten  so  he  was  powerless  to 
prevent  it.  Thoughts  would  flit  rapidly  one 
after  another,  and  with  each  shifting  scene, 
he  could  feel  a  twitching  of  the  eyeballs. 
This  twitching  of  the  eyeballs  was  more 
than  an  annoyance,  it  was  painful,  and 
brought  on  dull,  sick  headaches.  He  would 
try  to  control  his  eyes,  commanding  them 
to  be  still,  and  centering  all  his  mental 
forces  on  the  effort;  but  success  would  be 
only  temporary,  and  presently  the  demons 
of  unrest  would  be  turning  at  the  cranks 
again,  and  the  twitching  and  jerking  and 
flitting  would  begin  again,  and  the  snap- 
ping, crashing,  buzzing  sounds  would  get 
back  in  his  ears,  to  damn  his  every  moment 
with  their  diabolical  activity. 

Dreams!  Dreams!  Dreams!  Oh!  the 
dreams  and  the  pictures,  and  the  visions 
and  the  horrors,  the  noises,  and  the  tears, 
and  the  pain!  And  oh!  the  poverty,  and 
the  pictures  of  the  poverty!  An  endless 


THE  TORCH  OP  REASON.  65 

chain  and  endless  moving  picture  film  of 
vivid  flashes  from  scenes  of  life  and  death 
that  threatened  to  unbalance  his  mind  and 
drive  him  mad. 

From  a  day's  toil  in  the  frozen  earth  he 
would  sink  into  his  bunk  of  fir  boughs, 
eyes  heavy  and  weary  for  sleep,  but  no 
sleep  would  come  to  him.  No  sooner  would 
he  stretch  himself  for  the  sleep  his  eyes 
craved,  than  open  they  would  pop,  and  open 
they  would  stay,  far  into  the  night;  while 
his  aching  muscles  and  tired  bones  turned 
and  twisted  and  flopped  and  thrashed 
around,  as  the  whistles  blew  and  the  bells 
clanged,  and  the  street  cars  screeched  and 
ground  around  corners  in  the  helter-skelter 
chaos  of  muddled  civilization.  The  more 
the  ache  and  pain,  the  more,  it  seemed,  his 
sleepy  eyes  rejected  the  very  sleep  he  could 
not  live  without.  And  then  he  would  spring 
up,  light  the  grease  lamp  and  shiver 
through  a  pile  of  old  manuscripts  he  had 
written,  rewritten,  and  which  he  ever  found 
himself  rereading,  rewriting,  correcting  and 
revising,  and  tying  up  again.  Some  were 
songs,  songs  of  labor,  and  of  labor's  woes. 
Some  were  baby  lullaby s,  and  some  were 
love  songs,  tender  and  full  of  sweet  appeal. 
Other  poems  there  were  among  them,  and 
stories,  philosophy,  science  and  letters  of 
address.  This  nightly  task  performed,  he 
would  return  to  the  bunk  half  frozen  and 
fall  into  a  sleep  that  was  not  a  sleep  at  all — 


66  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

asleep  in  body,  but  with  mind  alert  and 
active — to  wake  at  dawn  with  lagging  spir- 
its, sodden,  discouraged,  and  blue! 

But  these  were  moods.  They  came  only 
periodically,  and  it  was  while  obsessed  by 
one  of  these  unhappy  broodings  with  its 
reminiscences  of  sorrow,  that  the  lure  of 
the  old  home  had  come  upon  him  with  a 
force  he  could  not  resist.  He  knew  it  was 
a  weakness,  but  suffered  himself  to  be 
whelmed  by  it,  and  finally  yielding  to  its 
subtle  wooings  as  a  blind  man  yields  to  the 
touch  of  a  little  child's  hand. 

On  the  trip  to  Dawson,  he  had  planned 
to  camp  only  every  other  night,  with  hope 
that  the  excessive  strain  of  trail  and  pack 
might  break  down  the  momentum  of  his 
brain  and  induce  sleep.  He  hoped  to  es- 
cape the  dreams,  for  he  needed  all  his 
strength  for  the  long  tramp  over  the  snow. 
Alas,  he  was  doomed  to  failure  in  this  fond 
hope  like  all  others ;  for  no  sooner  were  the 
scenes  of  the  day  just  ended  shut  out,  than 
came  galloping  on  the  heels  of  the  wolf 
fight,  the  whole  miserable  phantasmagoria 
of  infernal  horrors,  associated  here  and 
there  with  a  glint  of  joy  and  beauty,  the 
more  to  aggravate  the  pestilence  of  the 
black  drama. 

Strangely  enough,  the  joy  pictures  were 
the  first  on  the  program.  A  boy  again,  he 
was  playing  yacht  race  on  the  white  sandy 
shores  of  Squam  Lake,  sending  out  his  toy 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  67 

canoes  with  their  birch-bark  sails,  under 
the  frowning  visage  of  old  Bald  Ledge. 
There  were  the  two  "Kattlesnakes,"  tower- 
ing, like  the  nude  nipples  of  some  adaman- 
tine goddess,  basking  in  the  summer  sun- 
shine, or  lying  dormant  in  her  crystal  robes 
of  brumal  splendor.  He  was  a  strapping 
youth,  and  it  was  autumn.  The  corn  was 
yellow,  and  the  vast  maple  forests  were 
dreamily  nodding  their  tinted  tresses  to  the 
drowsy  year.  The  eagle  soared  higher  in 
his  dizzy  round  above  the  mountain,  and 
there  was  cider-making  at  the  old  Smith 
mill. 

On  Ace  Enos'  Point  he  was  hunting 
squirrels  with  old  Bob,  or  lining  bees  with 
Arthur  Godfrey,  and  rolling  rocks  from  the 
top  of  West  Hill  through  Steve  Bennett's 
sap  house,  for  the  mischief  that  was  in  him, 
and  that  had  to  come  out  of  him. 

And  still  on  went  the  dream.  The  roar 
of  the  little  river  did  not  disturb  him,  and 
the  pain  in  his  swollen  foot  was  forgotten 
along  with  the  wolf  fight  and  the  frost.  He 
was  transported  far  from  the  jagged  cliff 
where  his  tired  body  rested,  and  in  fancy 
once  again  he  was  at  the  Red  Gate,  splash- 
ing home  through  the  rain  with  his  brothers 
from  The  Bridge.  A  vision  of  the  Otter 
Islands  came  next.  There  were  his 
brothers,  wrecked,  and  he  was  flying  to  the 
rescue!  The  lake  was  afoam  and  the  sky 
black  and  lowering.  With  blanket  and  pad- 


68  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

die  he  was  running  for  his  canoe,  Omar  and 
Sam  heading  him  off  for  fear  of  his  life, 
while  the  storm  increased  in  fury,  and  the 
boys  clung  manfully  to  the  wave-swept  reef. 

So  far  it  was  not  an  important  dream. 
He  was  familiar  with  all  this  thing,  but  it 
went  merrily  on  as  dreams  have  a  habit  of 
doing,  and  as  moving  pictures  are  thrown 
on  a  screen  by  the  biograph.  There  was 
Uel  Bragg 's  tribe,  first,  second,  and  third 
crops.  And  his  fox  hounds  that  hunted 
rabbits,  and  his  rabbit  hounds  that  ran  only 
foxes.  There  were  many  mouths  in  this 
tribe :  Frank  and  Ben  and  Joe  and  Mamie, 
Emma,  Alice,  Fred  and'  Harry,  Hannah, 
Bob,  Pink  and  Bogy,  Spot  and  Spiver! 
And  a  dozen  or  so  more  he  could  not  recall 
— twenty-three  in  all — oh,  yes!  and  the 
"Nimshi!"  But  they  were  a  good  lot  of 
kids,  he  decided,  only  full  of  the  devil,  as 
the  old  man  used  to  say,  and  hard  to  keep 
track  of — especially  the  "Nimshi."  Used 
to  bore  their  ears,  Uel  told  the  neighbors, 
and  made  them  wear  a  tin  tag  with  a  num- 
ber on  it,  so  he  could  tell  when  they  were 
all  at  home  at  night. 

Whisk!  He  was  over  to  Carrie  Page's 
(dear,  dear  Carrie!),  in  her  hillside  home, 
where  all  were  welcome  and  where  all  was 
free.  There  was  Charles  Densmore,  old 
Ezra,  and  the  Old  Squaw  under  the  trees 
by  the  boulder.  Down  the  dusty  road  was 
the  old  schoolhouse.  It  was  recess  time, 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  69 

and  there  was  Winnie,  with  her  winsome 
ways  and  wisdom,  and  her  vari-hued  brood 
of  chattering  human  chicks.  *  *  *  To 
the  bonfire  on  the  ice.  The  skating  party, 
and  the  crowds  of  rustic  youths  and  hoary 
patriarchs.  He  was  cutting  fancy  scrolls 
with  Mamie  Smith  and  the  Piper  girls- 
Nina  and  Lil — and,  oh,  the  jealousy  of 
Johnny  Reynolds!  Now  he  was  leading 
Otis  Scruton  and  "Long-legs"  Charlie  a 
merry  race  around  Croag's  island,  while 
Oilman  Thompson  smoked  his  T.  D.,  and 
passed  the  cider  to  Frank  Marsh  and  Elder 
Sinkler,  with  Jennie  and  Alice  leading  in 
the  merriment  and  song.  *  *  * 

Down  to  John's.  Up  to  Susan-Marl's. 
A  Euchre  party  at  Carry- Ann's — Euchre, 
Pitch,  and  Seven-up — with  Nina  nudging 
under  the  table,  and  Gilpin  slipping  the 
Joker  to  Hen,  Warren  Leivitt  "rubbering," 
and  "Cud"  Wilder  keeping  tally.  That 
was  twenty-five  years  ago,  before  Sue 
Jones'  girls  were  married  off,  and  when 
there  was  peace  and  quiet  in  the  land,  and 
the  farmers  were  happy  and  free. 

And  now  it  was  a  dance.  Ah!  the  coun- 
try dances!  Over  at  John  Downings,  on 
the  Neck.  At  the  Harbor.  Up  to  The 
Bridge.  Away  to  Hardback  on  a  hay  ride. 
A  husking  at  Frank  Jewell's.  Here  he  was 
again,  living  over  all  the  old  times,  singing 
the  old  songs  and  dancing  the  old  inspiring 
dances  with  the  same  old-fashioned  maid- 


70  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

ens,  with  their  freckled  necks  and  freckled 
noses,  the  rosy  glow  of  rural  health  and 
rampant  beauty  in  their  round,  hard 
cheeks.  The  fiddler  in  the  entry  rasping 
out  "A  Turkey  in  the  Straw,"  and  beating 
a  rhythmic  "thump,  thump,  thump,"  with 
his  cowhide  boot,  at  the  same  time  calling 
off:  "Barlance  yer  pardner'n  swing  up— 
7n  —  daown  —  th'  center  —  awl  —  hands — 
'round."  Eawny  Fred  Killyard  prying 
himself  around  a  ten-foot  circle,  one  foot 
stationary,  the  other  doing  the  prying,  after 
the  manner  of  a  spring  cockrel  in  a  pullet 
pen,  and  taking  with  him  in  a  mad  embrace, 
little  Bosie  Brown,  her  feet  a  full  yard  off 
the  floor.  Oh,  the  freckles  and  the  frolic! 
The  apples  and  the  cider!  The  red  ear  of 
corn  and  the  kiss  behind  the  door!  Oh,  the 
yesterday  of  life!  Oh,  the  sweet,  sad 
visions— made  sadder  by  their  very  sweet- 
ness— of  the  joyous  days  of  these  recrudes- 
cent  transpositions  amid  the  silent  scenes 
of  wasted  years,  years  that  can  never  come 
back  again — never,  never  more! 

Following  all  of  which  there  came  an- 
other dream — another  vision.  It  were  a 
mercy  if  only  it  might  have  been  but  a 
dream — a  vision.  The  picture  came  rapidly 
in  regular  order  off  the  reel,  flashed  vivid 
and  unerring  on  the  mental  canvas  with  all 
the  realism  of  this  wonderful  mutoscopic 
sub-consciousness,  and  it  came  this  night 
as  it  had  come  a  thousand  times  before  to 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  71 

torture  him  and  scourge  him  on  toward  his 
grave:  The  divine  form  and  radiant  fea- 
tures and  sweet  womanly  grace  of  one  too 
pure  and  true  for  life  in  a  cruel  world  of 
beastly  immorality  and  tinseled  fraud.  He 
saw  again  the  liquid,  hazel  eyes  with  their 
heavy,  dark  lashes,  beaming  upon  him  full 
of  love  and  beauty.  He  stretched  forth  his 
hands  for  the  warm,  soft  press  of  the  tender 
hands  that  used  to  fondle  his  tangled  locks 
while  he  laved  his  greedy  soul  in  the  lavish 
gift  of  her  girlish  wif ehood.  It  was  the  old 
hope  of  home  and  happiness  that  for  twenty 
empty  years  had  hungered  his  famished 
life,  rustling  dryly  in  his  broken  heart,  like 
autumn  leaves  that  cling  on  icy  boughs  in 
winter  to  rustle  coldly  in  the  sleet  and  wind. 

Again  he  saw  himself  the  round,  rose- 
cheeked  youth,  asurge  with  the  red  fluid- 
fire  of  his  nomadic  strain,  arm  in  arm, 
cheek  to  cheek,  and  heart  to  heart  with  this 
stainless  rural  beauty,  basking  in  the  hal- 
lowed sunshine  of  each  other's  wholesome 
love.  All  was  hope.  All  was  love.  All  was 
promise,  and  his  faith  in  man  and  God  had 
not  been  scant  nor  shaken.  Flushed  with 
youth  and  health,  and  conscious  of  a  mod- 
est, manly  pride  both  in  himself  and  in  his 
sweet,  young  bride,  all  the  world  was  beau- 
tiful and  filled  with  joy  and  plenty.  *  *  * 

And  then  came  the  old  crash ! 

The  world  stopped,  gasped,  trembled  in 
space  then  burst  asunder!  The  heavens 


72  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

fell  down  and  the  earth  shot  up  to  meet 
them !  Crashing  and  smashing  they  fell  to- 
gether, and  the  dream  went  on.  The  stars, 
in  a  fusing  meteoric  galaxy  of  sputtering, 
sizzling  fire,  went  spilling  out  over  the 
world,  mingling  with  the  mangled  frag- 
ments of  human  hearts,  crushed,  and  torn 
and  bleeding,  and  all  festooned  with  gilded 
crosses  and  broken  swords.  Books  with 
brassen  clasps  and  with  pages  loose  and 
fluttering,  pages  red  with  the  blood  of 
virgins,  were  being  swept  along  into  a  great 
whirlpool  together  with  red-labeled  bottles 
from  which  spurted  redder  wines  and  yel- 
low liquors.  Bald-headed  priests  were 
trampling  on  the  upturned  faces  of  crying 
children.  Mighty-muscled  workingmen 
were  beating  back  pussy,  hog-like  creatures 
in  smooth  black  broad-cloth,  who  were 
snatching  bread  from  the  mouths  of  pale- 
faced  women  and  naked  babes. 

And  still  the  merciless  Gehenna  persisted. 
With  the  suffocating  fumes  of  burnt  pow- 
der choking  him,  a  stream  of  white-hot 
metal  poured  through  him  from  a  cannon's 
mouth  behind  his  back,  worlds,  rolling  and 
tumbling  through  burning  ether,  swirled 
and  curved  and  met  in  mid-air.  Moun- 
tains shook  and  crumbled  to  dust.  Lakes 
boiled  and  stood  on  end.  The  mighty  ocean 
was  sucked  up  into  space  and  spilled  out 
over  the  world  with  all  the  live  sea  monsters 
and  fishes  shredded  to  pulp  and  wriggling 


THE  TORCH  OP  REASON.  73 

in  the  throes  of  death.  Forest  trees  hurri- 
caned  through  the  blistering  tempest  roots 
uppermost;  and  into  this  stifling  cata- 
clysmic caldron  where  fetid  smoke  curled 
in  inky  billows  shot  through  with  incessant 
flames  of  tongued  lightning,  Jason  Sands 
was  pinioned,  helpless,  speechless,  and 
alone ! 

Consciousness  left  him.  Down  he  sank 
into  the  boiling  mass,  down,  down,  for  a 
million  years!  Then  he  was  alive  again. 
His  ears  caught  far  soft  sounds.  A  spirit 
hand,  cool  and  gentle,  bathed  his  scorched 
forehead.  Something  touched  his  rigid  lips 
and  left  a  drop  of  sweetest  nectar  there. 
He  opened  his  eyes,  and  there,  beaming 
down  upon  him  sweetly  but  sadly  stood  the 
one  divine  figure,  and  when  he  smiled  she 
stretched  her  white  arms  out  to  him  in 
silent  longing.  He  could  see  her  clearly 
now.  The  sun  was  shining  on  her  glorious 
head,  the  promise  of  a  sacred  love— oft  re- 
peated— still  radiating  from  the  windows 
of  her  dear  soul.  Surely  he  was  not  dead, 
for  it  was  Erma !  But  at  that  moment  came 
a  great  shock — greater  than  all  others  which 
had  gone  before.  The  earth  staggered, 
heaved  and  was  parted  at  their  feet,  leav- 
ing a  great  and  widening  gulf  between 
them.  On  the  brink  of  the  black  maw  she 
stood  wildly  calling.  His  heart  was  being 
torn  as  with  talons.  But  he  could  not  go 
her,  and  she  could  not  come  to  him!  *  * 


*   * 


74  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

There  was  a  movement  on  the  shelf  in 
the  cliff.  A  great  red  hand  pushed  back  the 
folds  of  a  frosted  blanket.  Eyes  stared  up 
into  the  blood-red  sunshine — eyes  that  were 
sunken,  and  sad,  and  wet  with  icy  tears. 
Minutes  passed  and  there  was  no  further 
movement.  The  eyes  glared  bewilderingly, 
the  hand  fingered  the  soft,  mealy  snow,  and 
then  the  huge  form  of  Jason  Sands  sat 
erect.  The  next  instant  he  was  on  his  feet. 
Bending  over  the  cliff  he  looked  down  where 
the  night  before  he  had  hovered  between 
life  and  death.  The  wolves  were  gone !  Not 
one  remained. 

" Clear  case  of  cold  feet,"  he  said,  "I 
wish  they  had  waited  for  me !  Providence, 
your  discipline  is  lax,  and  your  emissaries 
are  becoming  unruly." 

The  awakened  dreamer  was  not  long  in 
deciding  what  to  do.  His  foot  was  badly 
swollen  and  paining  him.  It  needed  imme- 
diate attention,  but  the  best  he  could  do  was 
to  loosen  his  mocassin  and  hurry  to  the 
Porks  where  stood  Frank  Durgen's  old 
cabin,  and  where  he  could  have  heat  and 
shelter.  There  he  would  hold  up  for  a  day 
or  two  and  give  it  proper  dressing. 

The  weather  had  moderated,  and  the  first 
faint  hint  of  breaking  winter  was  in  the 
air. 

At  the  Forks,  he  found  the  cabin  occu- 
pied by  an  Indian — a  small  young  squaw. 
Her  man,  she  said,  had  gone  to  Dawson  for 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  75 

grub,  and  she  was  looking  for  him  to  return 
every  day.  They  had  run  out  of  flour  two 
months  back,  and  the  Canadian  half-breed 
had  packed  the  dust  and  left  her,  promising 
to  be  back  with  the  supplies  in  fourteen 
days.  It  was  three  hundred  miles,  with 
spring  trail  and  open  country. 

"Took  the  dust  with  him,  did  he?"  re- 
peated Jason  after  the  guileless  squaw. 
Then  he  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 
That,  then,  was  the  secret  of  it!  But  he 
had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her,  for  he  saw 
that  her  trust  in  the  scoundrel  was  still  un- 
shaken, and  he  could  afford  to  be  merciful. 

She  would  go  to  Dawson  to  look  him  up ! 
In  fact,  she  was  packed  and  ready  to  start 
when  Jason  arrived. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "take  this  letter 
with  you  and  I  will  give  you  much  dust.  I 
would  go,  too,  but—"  and  he  pointed  to  his 
swollen  foot  and  the  Indian  knew.  Open- 
ing his  pack  Jason  poured  her  two  hands 
full  and  heaped  them  up,  from  a  sack  of 
yellow  gold — a  full  thousand  dollars. 

"There,"  he  said,  "this  is  yours.  Find 
the  doctor  and  lay  this  letter  in  his  hands. 
And  see,"  he  admonished  her,  "many  days 
must  I  suffer  great  trouble.  Dawson  is  very 
far."  The  simple  child  of  Nature  read  his 
meaning  ere  he  had  spoken ;  and  turning  on 
her  tiny  snowshoes  bade  him  keep  watch 
and  said: 


76  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"Toy  bring  Long  Hair,  sure,  quick!  Toy 
no  'fraid.  Big  Snow  count  sleep  small 
(holding  up  her  ten  fingers),  Indian  foot 
much  swift."  With  this  she  was  gone,  and 
the  man  of  many  troubles  was  alone. 

Ten  days  later  Dr.  Spanto  and  Jack 
Philips,  accompanied  by  the  young  squaw, 
and  with  an  outfit  of  twelve  husky  dogs 
and  a  well-laden  sled,  pulled  into  the  Forks. 
It  had  snowed,  but  there  were  no  tracks 
outside  the  little  log  hut. 

In  his  early  days  Spanto  had  house- 
boated  the  Mississippi  River  from  St.  Louis 
to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico;  and  in  those  days 
—the  happiest  of  his  life  he  would  main- 
tain— he  had  first  met  Jack  Philips  and 
Jason  Sands.  Later,  they  had  met  in  Daw- 
son,  Jason  bound  for  a  mythical  El  Dorado 
as  yet  undiscovered,  and  farther  to  the 
North,  while  the  happy  Spanto  was  con- 
tent, as  he  put  it,  to  "fry  his  bacon  and 
wallop  his  dodger  in  his  own  skillet,  and 
over  a  fire  of  his  own  making."  And  in 
Dawson  City  he  preferred  to  mine  the  miner 
—moderately— in  return  for  his  profes- 
sional skill,  to  the  more  arduous  methods 
of  pick  and  fire-hole.  Jason  had  not  seen 
him  in  four  years;  but  he  knew  him  to  be 
a  true  blue  friend  and  comrade,  and  if 
still  in  the  north  country  Toy  would  find 
him  and  he  would  move  heaven  and  earth 
to  come  to  his  aid. 

Jack  Philips  was  also  a  Socialist,  one  of 
the  kind  that  can  usually  be  found  working 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  77 

at  it.  Also  he  was  a  close  friend  of  Jason's, 
and  when  the  doctor  told  him  of  their  old 
friend's  plight,  Philips  threw  down  every- 
thing and  joined  the  rescue  party  in  the 
three-hundred-mile  race  with  death. 

Jason  and  Philips  had  met  in  St.  Louis, 
and,  although  they  disagreed  on  about 
everything  with  the  exception  of  Social- 
ism, they  railroaded  together  between  St. 
Louis  and  Kansas  City,  and  became  firm 
friends.  And  now  here  they  were  meeting 
again  in  this  God-forgotten  corner  of  the 
world,  after  many  years  and  many  hard- 
ships in  the  individual  strife  for  life. 

After  seeing  the  squaw  on  her  way,  Jason 
turned  his  attention  to  his  wounded  foot. 
Removing  mocassin  and  socks  he  was  horri- 
fied at  the  sisrht.  Also  the  r>ain  multiplied 
a  thousand  fold  with  the  free  circulation 
and  the  warm  of  the  fireplace.  At  first 
sierht  of  the  dark  purple  gash  he  felt  the 
color  recede  from  his  face  and  he  knew  he 
was  going  to  faint.  There  was  a  nasty 
sickness  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach  and  he 
was  weak  and  vacillating.  "Blood  poison!" 
he  said  aloud.  "And  probahlv  rabies,  and 
possiblv  lockiaw!"  Jason  Sands  had  seen 
this  thing  before,  and  "he  knew  the  route  of 
the  victim  of  mad  wolf -bite. 

Tn  the  half-breed's  bunk  he  found  raw 
tobacco.  This  he  soaked  in  hot  water  and 
bound  on  the  wound:  but  the  next  dav  the 
foot  was  worse,  and  then  he  soaked  the 
foot  in  hot  water,  the  next  thing  in  line 


78  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

to  do ;  but  on  the  fifth  day  it  began  to  turn 
black,  and  then  he  literally  boiled  the  flesh 
from  the  bones! 

When  on  the  tenth  day  after  the  fleet- 
footed  Indian  girl  had  gone  on  her  flying 
errand,  she  returned  with  help  and  stormed 
into  the  little  shack,  it  was  a  pitiful  sight 
that  met  their  horrified  gaze!  The  cabin 
was  poorly  lighted,  and  it  was  some  mo- 
ments before  their  "snow  eyes"  accustomed 
themselves  to  the  sudden  change.  The  doc- 
tor was  the  first  inside  the  door,  and  at  his 
first  step  he  put  his  foot  on  something  that 
moved  under  his  weight  and  nearly  threw 
him.  A  lighted  match  revealed  a  naked 
human  foot!  The  desperate  miner  had 
waited  until  the  last  minute,  and  then,  with 
his  pocket  knife,  he  had  amputated  the 
wounded  foot  at  the  ankle  and  tossed  it 
toward  the  door! 

Juarez  Spanto  was  an  Aztec  Indian. 
Born  in  Old  Mexico,  he  was  a  lineal  de- 
scendant from  the  once  great  and  powerful 
tribe  of  that  name,  which  ruled  that 
southern  empire  in  the  days  before  the 
Spanish  conquest.  He  was  a  finely  knit 
specimen  of  the  now  rapidly  disintegrating 
breed,  of  medium  height  and  with  glossy 
black  hair  that  hung  in  massive  waves  below 
his  square  shoulders.  The  practice  of  medi- 
cine with  him  was  a  pastime.  He  had  in- 
herited the  love  of  it  from  his  semi-savage 
forebears.  It  was  the  Science  of  Herbs,  and 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  79 

there  was  an  herb  for  the  cure  of  every  ill. 
When  he  saw  what  Jason  had  done  he  was 
furious;  but  later  agreed  that,  in  all  prob- 
ability, and  in  the  absence  of  the  more 
scientific  treatment,  it  was  the  only  imme- 
diate means  of  relief,  and  that  it  had  saved 
the  man's  life. 

"I  suppose  the  Christian  Scientists  would 
have  us  believe  that  there  was  never  any- 
thing very  seriously  wrong  with  the  foot, 
and  that  a  little  heavy  thinking  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  restore  the  foot  as  good  as 
new,  'eh,  Jack?"  challenged  the  Physicist. 

"The  Christian  Scientist  mav  be  off  his 
trolley  in  some  respects,  like  all  the  rest  of 
us ;  there  are  few  perfect  in  this  world.  But 
I  am  of  the  opinion  that  he  would  deny  the 
necessity  of  hacking  off  that  foot,  and  I 
think  T  should  agree  with  him,"  replied  the 
unruffled  Jack. 

"I  believe,"  ventured  Jason,  "they  claim 
that  'good'  is  everything  powerful,  and 
that  everything  else  is  what  they  term 
' error.'  Therefore  they  might  be  expected 
to  say,  that,  although  the  wolf  had  bitten 
the  font,  the  flesh  being  'error' — a  'temporal 
unreality' — must  have  surrendered  to 
'good.'  which  is  all  powerful,  being  'reality,' 
and  'infinite.'  They  could,  on  that  assump- 
tion, reason  that,  the  result  of  the  bite  could 
not  have  been  serious  owing  to  the  fact  that 
the  bite  being  simply  contact  of  tooth  with 
flesh,  and  that  both  being  'error — matter,' 


80  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

and  therefore  'unreality,'  must  have  been 
subordinate  to  'good'  which  reposes  in  the 
mind." 

" There  are  many  so-called  ills,"  re- 
sponded Jack,  "that  are  merely  an  un- 
natural condition  of  mind." 

Neither  Jason  nor  the  doctor  seemed  as 
yet  fully  converted  to  the  think-remedy 
"faith,  and  the  doctor  sacreligiously  offered 
the  suggestion  that,  had  the  man  fallen 
down  among  the  several  hundred  ferocious 
beasts,  and  had  they  deigned  to  connect 
their  many-fanged  "error"  with  his  one 
flesh  "error,"  according  to  past  history 
anent  the  reputation  of  the  wolf,  it  must 
have  required  some  hot  stepping  on  the  part 
of  his  mental  "divinity"  to  dissuade  them 
and  convince  them  of  the  "error"  of  their 
ways! 

The  Jason  told  a  story  on  the  Christian 
Scientists:  "One  day,"  he  said,  "there 
were  two  little  girls  at  play,  when  the 
mother  of  one  of  the  little  girls  called  to 
her.  'I  must  go,'  said  she,  'for  papa  is 
sick,  and  mamma  needs  me.'  'Aw,  he  ain't 
sick,'  encouraged  the  other,  'he  only  thinks 
he's  sick!' 

"The  next  day  the  two  little  girls  met 
again,  meanwhile  the  man  had  died.  'How 
is  your  papa  to-day?'  sympathetically 
inquired  the  one  whose  people  were 
'  scientists. ' 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  81 

"  'Oh!'  replied  the  other,  tears  filling 
her  swollen  eyes,  'he  just  thinks  he's 
dead!" 

But  Jack  Philips,   with  his  new-found 
"bug"    theories,    as    Jason    characterized 
them,   was  honest,   and  his   fealty  to  the 
cause  they  both  loved  was  none  the  less 
manifest  and  sincere  because  of  their  re- 
ligious  discrepancies.     In  this   particular 
faith,  like  all  the  faiths,  creeds,  and  doc- 
trines that  had  attached  themselves  to  the 
race  and  found  favor,  he  knew  Jack  was 
but  a  seeker  after  the  truth,  and  that  his 
present  philosophy  of  life — false  or  true — 
was    simply    a    transition    through    which 
eventually    he    would    pass,     and    which 
would  land  him  high  and  dry  above  the  fog. 
For  Philips  was  a  thinker,  as  well  as  a 
doer,  and  possessed  a  big,  broad  intellect, 
and  a  generous,  loving  heart.    He  loved  all 
mankind  with  the  genuine  love  of  a  brother, 
a  friend,  and  a  comrade,  and  with  a  love 
that  was  constant  and  real.    More  men  like 
Jack  Philips  could  only  result  in  making 
the  world  a  better  and  a  sweeter  place  in 
which  to  live.    The  great  goodness  and  faith 
of  this  simple-hearted  boy-man   only  the 
more  seemed  to  bear  Jason  out  in  his  theory 
that,  man,  to-day,  is  not  the  man  he  desires 
to  be,  and  that  he  will  be  under  conditions 
more  compatible  with  his  ideals  and  aspira- 


82  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

tions.  He  believed  man  is  ever  hopeful  of 
the  future.  That  he  has  ever  striven  for  a 
goal  which  is  an  idealism  wherein  want 
shall  be  unknown,  and  where  every  man 
may  look  squarely  in  the  eyes  of  every 
other  man,  knowing  he  is  his  friend. 

Before  amputating  the  foot,  Jason  had 
thrown  an  extremely  effective  tourniquet 
on  his  leg  just  below  the  knee  with  the  raw- 
hide lacing  of  his  mocassin.  This  precau- 
tion had  saved  his  life.  He  had  not  acted 
in  time  in  the  heroic  application  of  the 
knife,  and  the  poison  had  reached  the  thick 
muscles  of  his  calf  before  he  performed  the 
operation  at  the  ankle.  The  flesh  was  the 
color  of  creosote.  The  eye  of  the  trained 
physician  and  physicist  needed  but  one 
swift  look.  Flashing  a  silent  threat  at 
Philips,  he  motioned  Toy  forward  with  his 
long  instrument  case.  With  a  few  positive 
orders  to  her,  he  turned  to  Philips  with 
sweet  serenity  but  firmness  withal  and  com- 
manded: "Jack,  the  wafty  stuff  don't  go. 
Cut  it  out!  Steady,  now,  there's  not  a 
minute  to  lose!"  And  Jack  was  silent. 

When  three  months  later  the  Aurora 
blew  her  screechy  whistle,  for  "all  aboard 
for  down  river,"  four  passengers,  the  last 
to  go  on  board,  hustled  up  the  gangplank 
together.  The  man  in  the  lead  wore 
crutches  of  enormous  size,  and  his  hair  was 
the  color  of  pure,  white  silk.  Also  his  left 
trousers'  leg  was  pinned  up  at  the  knee. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  83 

The  man  was  too  big  and  wide  for  the  gang- 
way, and  had  to  edge  his  way  between  the 
narrow  railings  sidewise.  The  next  in  line 
was  a  big,  jolly,  good-looking  boy-man  with 
laughing  eyes  and  a  handsome  double  row 
of  pearl  white  teeth  set  in  a  generous  mouth 
above  a  square,  strong  jaw.  His  every  look 
and  movement  bespoke  manliness,  courage, 
and  great  strength.  Immediately  behind 
him  came  a  tall,  spring- jointed,  soldierly 
looking  man  with  long  black  hair  and 
swarthy  skin;  and  following  close  on  his 
heels  came  a  small,  pretty  featured  and 
neatly  attired  woman.  She  was  also 
swarthy,  but  less  swarthy  than  the  man 
with  the  long  hair,  and  her  great  dark,  sen- 
suous eyes  and  rose-tinted  cheeks,  belied 
the  purity  of  the  Indian  blood  and  clearly 
reflected  the  infusion  of  the  Spanish  strain. 

A  great  throng  had  pressed  to  the  water's 
edge,  for  Dawson  City  was  celebrating  a 
wedding!  God-speeding  honeymooners  re- 
quires much  rice  and  many  old  boots;  and 
though  rice  sold  at  a  dollar  a  pound  in 
Dawson,  the  quantity  available  was  copious, 
and  littered  the  deck  along  with  the  old 
boots  until  the  footing  in  that  quarter  be- 
came extremely  perilous.  It  was  an  eager 
sea  of  faces  that  clamored  for  a  last  look 
at  the  happy  couple,  and  it  was  not  without 
difficulty  that  the  big  boy-man  finally  per- 
suaded the  blushing  Toy  and  grinning 
Spanto  to  appear  at  the  starboard  rail,  as 


84  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

the  little  stern-wheeler  slued  into  the  cur- 
rent and  headed  for  the  salt  water  two 
thousand  miles  away. 

It  was  the  month  of  August.  The  brief 
northern  summer  was  at  an  end,  and  the 
more  brief  autumn  was  drearily  dreaming 
out  its  evanescent  reign. 

To  all  but  Jason  Sands  the  trip  down  the 
wild  Yukon  was  a  delightful  and  romantic 
caprice.  There  was  a  time  when  to  him  it 
also  would  have  been  delightful;  but  that 
was  when  he  was  a  whole  man  and  possessed 
two  legs  and  as  many  feet  to  walk  on.  Now 
what  was  he  but  the  relic  of  his  former  self 
—a  dereliction?  It  was  all  the  same  to 
him  now.  Each  day  was  like  its  prede- 
cessor, and  hours  were  so  many  cogs  in  the 
wheel  of  Time. 

To  the  dare-devil  Spanto,  it  revived  vast 
recollections  of  other  days— days  of  his 
early  exploits  and  adventures  on  his  house- 
boat in  company  with  Billy  Kirkendoll  on 
the  riotous  waters  of  the  Old  Mississippi. 
Jack  Philips  was  full  of  sunshine  and  op- 
timism, and  the  passengers  were  uproar- 
ously  entertained  with  his  jovial  compan- 
ionship and  inexhaustible  wealth  of  wit  and 
good  stories.  The  little  bride  was  radiant 
and  happy.  Her  other  man  had  lost  all 
their  dust  on  a  game  of  chance  in  a  gamb- 
ling hell,  and  then  lost  his  miserable  life 
in  a  fight.  When  she  went  to  the  Mexican 
Spanto  and  related  the  circumstances,  he 


'To  all  but  Jason  Sands,  the  trip  down  the  wild  Yukon  was  a 
delightful  and  romantic  caprice." 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  85 

looked  long  and  thoughtfully  into  the 
brightly  burning  embers  of  his  warm  fire, 
and  a  dark  cloud  gathered  on  his  brow. 
Then,  laying  a  hand  gently  on  the  bowed 
head  before  him  said,  simply:  "Toy,  come! 
I  will  be  your  man,  and  you  shall  be  my 
Toy.  You  are  good.  I  have  much  dust. 
We  will  be  comrades."  Whereupon  the 
diminutive  daughter  of  the  wild  dried  her 
eyes,  and  fetching  her  blanket,  laid  it  on 
his  bed. 

But  poor  Jason!  He  was  an  object  of 
pity!  He  would  sit  for  hours  on  deck, 
gazing  steadily  with  a  far-off  look  in  his 
paternal  eyes,  oblivious  to  all  save  the 
anguish  that  ate  into  his  heart  and  that  was 
eating  the  heart  out  of  him.  In  spite  of 
all  the  rest  of  the  little  party  could  do  to 
cheer  him,  he  seemed  constantly  growing 
dispirited  and  morose.  As  the  days  went 
by,  he  became  the  very  embodiment  of  dis- 
suasion and  sadness.  " Brace  up,"  Jack 
Philips  would  chirrup,  "  forget  it,  old  boy, 
the  blues  don't  get  you  anything,  only 
nearer  Salt  Creek,  and  this  craft  ain't  head- 
ing right  to  fetch  that  harbor;  so  come  out 
of  it,  Comrade,  and  let's  have  a  song." 

"Think  of  it,"  chimed  in  the  doctor  one 
day,  "only  for  little  Toy,' here,  you  would 
not  be  with  us  now.  But  here  you  are,  a 
million  times  better  than  a  dead  man,  and 
we  are  not  going  to  desert  you.  We  will 
see  you  through  in  safety,  and  you  are 


86  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

going  to  be  with  us  when  we  take  the  world 
from  the  thieves  who  have  stolen  it,  and 
when  we  usher  in  the  Co-operative  Com- 
monwealth." 

But  Jason  understood.  And  the  more 
they  tried  to  jolly  him  along,  the  deeper  his 
grief  sunk  him  in  the  quagmire  of  despond- 
ency. It  seemed  there  was  no  escape  for 
him,  for  the  crew,  and  all  the  other  pas- 
sengers got  the  habit,  and  no  one  could  pass 
him  without  parroting  that  detestable 
"brace  up!"  "Cheer  up!"  "Be  jolly!" 
"Forget  it!"  "Smile!"  "Remember  there 
are  others  worse  off  than  you!"  "Laugh 
and  the  world  laughs  with  you!"  and  all 
that  garrulity  of  fools. 

"How  in  hell  can  a  man  laugh?" 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  all  hands 
were  seated  aft,  the  little  boat  coughing 
merrily  along,  when  at  a  bizzare  outburst 
of  laughter  from  some  of  the  crew,  Jason 
turned  to  Jack  Philips  and  literally  took 
his  breath  away  with  the  foregoing  explo- 
sive interrogation.  For  a  moment  the 
happy-hearted  Jack  was  speechless.  The 
Mexican  shot  a  swift  glance  at  Toy,  and 
that  humiliate  child  of  piety  suppressed  a 
little  scream,  and  looked  generously  tol- 
erant but  mildly  reproachful  at  Jason 
Sands. 

"Oh!  Big  Snow,"  she  chided,  "Toy  no 
hear  Big  Snow  talk  fire-talk  before.  Toy 
no  like  fire-talk.  Please,  Big  Snow,  try 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  87 


laugh  small.  No  be  sorry.  Toy  sorry! 
Great  Padra  much  sorry!" 

Here  the  little  tamed  wildling  crossed 
herself,  and  came  and  knelt  beside  Jason's 
chair. 

"You  are  right,  Toy,"  he  said,  "and  I 
am  sorry  right  now;  for  it  is  not  manly  to 
use  so  great  an  invention  as  the  language 
of  the  human  tongue  in  wasteful,  senseless 
phrases.  Besides,  Toy,  you  believe  that  God 
heard  me  swear,  and  that  he  is  worried 
about  the  welfare  of  my  wicked  soul  ?  And 
that  if  I  am  good,  and  don't  swear,  we  shall 
all  meet  in  the  Happy  Game  Preserve  up 
yonder  where  there  is  plenty  dust  and  much 
big  hunting;  eh,  Toy?"  The  unsophisti- 
cated Toy  looked  up  at  the  cruel  jester 
wide-eyed,  and  with  the  joy  of  conquest 
beaming  from  an  unsullied  soul  and  nodded ! 

"Poor  little  wounded  birds,"  he  thought, 
"how  easily  their  gilded  wings  are  broken; 
but  their  superstitions  and  prejudices 
never!  Oh,  the  obeisance  of  a  blind  belief  I 
Alas  for  the  fetish  of  faith,  and  the  igno- 
rance, and  the  false  teaching!"  The  kind- 
hearted  man  of  sorrows  laid  a  hand  on  her 
raven-black  hair  and  spoke  to  her  in  pure 
charity:  "Toy,  you  have  made  me  under- 
stand. I  shall  be  a  better  man.  When  I 
die  and — go  to  Heaven — I  shall  tell  the 
good  saints  of  you,  and  how  you  made  your 
little  feet  fly  to  save  my  life;  and  if  I 
should  happen  to  be  the  first  to  go,  I  will 


88  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

tell  the  Great  Padra  that  you  are  very  good 
and  are  coining  too.  And  now  you  run  and 
sit  beside  Doc,  for  he's  beginning  to  be 
sorry  too!" 

Turning  to  Philips  with  feigned  impa- 
tience, but  without  repeating  the  question, 
he  demanded,  naively:  "Why  don't  you 
answer,  Jack?" 

"It's  easy  enough  to  laugh,  Comrade,  the 
world  is  beautiful  and  life  is  sweet,  and 
everything  would  look  bright  to  us  if  only 
we  had  love  in  our  hearts.  Look  at  me.  I 
love  everybody  and  everything,  and  every- 
body loves  me.  It  was  the  teaching  of  the 
Nazarene."  The  doctor  "huhed,"  audibly, 
and  Toy  fidgeted  in  evident  anticipation  of 
a  volcanic  eruption  from  that  direction  and 
Jack  went  on: 

"You  see,  Comrade,"  he  said,  "hate  has 
ruled  the  world  so  long  that  all  mankind 
has  come  to  look  upon  life  as  a  fight,  and 
we  hear  much  about  'the  struggle  for  life.' 
Men  meet,  not  as  brothers,  but  as  enemies- 
antagonists.  As  if  there  were  not  room 
enough  in  the  world  for  all  of  us  to  live  in 
peace  and  amid  plenty!  I  am  a  Socialist, 
because  I  recognize  the  injustice  of  the 
capitalist  system,  and  the  inevitability  of 
its  downfall  and  the  establishment  of  the 
more  sane  and  equitable  system  of  co-opera- 
tive human  endeavor.  But  there  is  no  rea- 
son why  we  who  know  the  causes  of  things, 
as  well  as  the  remedy  and  the  method  of 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  89 

/ 

the  application  of  that  remedy,  should  cling 
longer  to  the  old  hate  philosophy.  Love 
will  accomplish  much  more  good  for  the 
cause  than  can  be  achieved  by  any  other 
method." 

"How  about  the  fellow  I  catch  picking 
my  pockets?"  fumed  the  Aztec.  "How 
about  the  conscienceless  degenerate  who 
violates  my  confidence  and  my  friendship? 
How  about  that  rat-eyed  cur  that  dragged 
her  (pointing  to  Toy)  from  her  people, 
beat  and  starved  her,  then  finally  shook  her 
three  hundred  miles  from  nowhere,  went  on 
a  drunk  and  to  an  unmarked  grave?  Ex- 
pect a  sane  man  to  love  cattle  of  that  stripe? 
I  tell  you  it  is  unnatural  and  impossible. 
A  cada  malo  su  did  malo!" 

"You  are  right,  Doc,  and  you  are  wrong. 
It  is  true,  as  you  say,  that,  'the  evil  doer 
shall  know  his  evil  day.'  But  in  the  sur- 
rendering of  the  point,  my  position  only 
becomes  the  stronger.  Listen:  I  am  not  a 
believer  in  the  crime  of  punishment.  Man 
does  not  commit  evil  from  choice,  but  be- 
cause of  necessity,  or  what  he  imagines  to 
be  necessity.  Evil  is  not  of  human  nature 
but  of  Inhuman  nature.  It  is  the  beast-man 
and  not  the  god-man  at  riot  in  the  china- 
shop  of  human  morals.  Man  is  ever  fleeing 
away  from  the  Beast.  He  is  ever  seeking 
higher  levels.  'The  evil  conscience  needs 
no  accuser;'  and  the  evil  day  of  the  evil 
doer  shall  be  the  day  when  he  reviews  his 


90  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

shameful  handiwork  in  the  light  of  truth 
and  reason." 

"But  there  are  some  men,  I  tell  you,  who 
are  absolutely  devoid  of  conscience.  Right 
and  wrong  to  them  has  become  simply  a 
question  of,  'how  much  will  it  pay.'  Morals 
don't  enter  into  the  deal  at  all.  It  is  simply 
a  viewpoint,  anyway,  an  economic  view- 
point, focused  from  a  selfish  angle.  These 
men  are  a  menace  to  society;  do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  you  want  such  men  to  run 
at  large,  and  that  they  should  not  be 
punished?" 

"Man  is  a  creature  of  environment,  Doc, 
and  his  course  in  life  is  shaped  by  his  con- 
tact with  life,  not  from  the  inner  promp- 
tings of  his  better  nature.  He  is  molded 
from  without,  not  from  within.  Eead 
Twain's  'What  is  Man?' 

"No,  I  do  not  believe  in  punishment.  We 
have  been  punished  too  much  already — 
usually  for  the  crimes  of  others.  A  man 
cannot  be  blamed  for  fighting  for  his  life. 
For  he  finds  himself  being  fought,  and  until 
the  cause  of  the  fight  is  removed,  the  fight 
will  go  on,  and  on,  and  he  who  will  not 
fight  must  submit  to  inevitable  annihilation. 
But  he  who  fights  for  more  than  life  fights 
in  ignorance,  and  he  should  be  suppressed 
and  educated,  not  punished.  Under  a  sane 
and  equitable  arrangement  of  industrial 
and  economic  co-operation,  he  would  not 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  91 

need  to  fight;  so,  instead  of  strife  and  hate, 
his  course  would  be  governed  by  peace  and 
love." 

"Oh,  I  understand  all  that.  Say,  you 
make  me  tired!  You  always  run  away  off 
on  a  round-about  rampage  among  a  lot  of 
parenthetical  sidetracks,  to  begin  expound- 
ing Socialism  to  me!  As  if  I  were  not  a 
Socialist  already,  but  some  ignorant  chief 
justice,  senator  or  professor,  or  even  a 
Roosevelt !  What  I  cannot  understand,  and 
what  you  have  a  habit  of  dodging,  is,  how 
you  can  expect  we  are  to  love  and  treat 
gently,  the  brutal  fiend  who  interferes  with 
our  personal  efforts  to  earn  an  honest  liv- 
ing. I  know  it  is  the  capitalist  system 
which  brutalizes  men — all  of  us — more  or 
less— the  whole  race.  But  if  one  of  the  more 
brutal  and  ignorant  of  the  beasts  oozes  a 
stilletto  down  the  back  of  my  neck  and 
takes  my  watch  and  dust,  I  want  you  to 
explain  to  me  by  what  process  of  mental 
hypnotism  I  may  so  twist  the  law  of  self- 
defense  as  to  excite  in  me  a  great  and  undy- 
ing love  for  this  particular  human  hyena?'* 

"Very  well,  old  boy,  I  will  tell  you  once 
for  all,  and  if  you  will  follow  me  closely, 
then  think  it  over  for  a  long  time — seri- 
ously, now,  Doc — you  will  see  that  I  am 
right,  and  instead  of  hating  this  poor,  weak 
brother,  you  will  come  to  pity,  and  even  to 
love  him.  You  will  find  yourself  reaching 
out  to  him  with  the  torch  of  reason,  just 


92  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

as  I  am  doing.  This  is  Love  conquering  the 
world — Love,  the  God  of  Humanity." 

At  this  point  Jason  began  to  exhibit  un- 
mistakable signs  of  a  deep,  and  growing  in- 
terest in  the  discussion— an  interest  such  as 
he  had  not  manifested  in  anything  since 
the  loss  of  his  good  left  leg.  He  liked 
Philips,  but  he  had  never  been  able  to  see 
through  this  love-of-an-enemy  logic,  and  he 
was  all  attention  now  that  it  was  about  to 
be  laid  bare. 

The  little  boat  had  passed  Fort  Yukon, 
which  is  the  junction  of  the  Yukon  and 
Porcupine  rivers,  where  the  waters  widen 
out  into  what  amounts  almost  to  a  shallow 
lake,  long  and  narrow,  and  filled  with  small 
islands  for  a  distance  of  ten  or  more  miles. 
This  lake-like  stretch  of  sluggish  water  is 
called  "The  Flats,"  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  "Yukon  Flats."  Navigation 
through  "The  Flats"  is  always  considered 
a  dangerous  procedure  at  best.  The  hun- 
dreds of  sand  bars  are  constantly  shifting, 
and  it  is  not  an  infrequent  occurrence  for 
steamers  to  scrape  their  bottoms  on  these 
bars,  or  go  aground  dead.  Complete  wrecks 
are  matters  of  current  history. 

At  Fort  Yukon,  Capt.  Anderson  shipped 
a  larsre  consismment  of  bullion  from  the 
Fort  Yukon  Mining  and  Milling  Co.  for  the 
'Commercial  Trust  Co.,  of  Washington,  at 
Seattle. 

There  was  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  in 
the  appearance  of  any  of  the  six  passengers 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  93 

who  came  aboard  at  that  point,  more  than 
that  they  were  rough-looking  men,  unshaven 
and  generally  unkempt  in  accord  with  the 
custom  of  miners  of  that  north  country. 
But  the  Mexican,  Spanto,  eyed  them 
sharply.  Toy  exhibited  an  unmistakable  un- 
easiness whenever  they  appeared  on  deck, 
and,  somehow,  Indians  seem  to  know. 
Jason  noticed  her  watching  them  and  re- 
marked to  Philips  that  there  was  something 
out  of  tune  aboard  ship.  And  while  the 
crowd  drew  near  to  hear  Jack  preach,  he 
turned  to  his  comrade  and  remarked,  in  a 
low  whisper: 

"Jack,  there  is  a  born  criminal — a  man 
with  an  inherited  aspiration  to  kill.  He 
might  easily  be  the  son  of  a  priest,  sucking 
his  first  milk  from,  and  cradling  his  head 
on  the  hairy  breast  of  a  she  gorilla. "  As 
he  spoke  he  pointed  over  his  shoulder  to  a 
hercules  with  a  thick  mat  of  black  whiskers 
and  beady  black  eyes  which  almost  came  out 
of  the  same  socket,  and  which  seemed  to 
see  everything  at  once  without  looking  at 
anything  in  particular. 

"Hell,"  he  went  on,  "will  heave  a  sigh 
of  relief  when  that  blessed  brigand  joins 
the  golden  harp  orchestra  up  among  the 
immaculate  wing-wafters  of  the  favored 
few." 

"Man,"  Philips  began  again,  "is  but  an 
animal.  But  he  is  a  progressive  animal. 
Also,  he  is  the  most  virtuously  ignorant  of 


94  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

all  the  animal  kingdom,  for  he  is  the  only 
species  in  the  universe  which  has  to  be 
''civilized.'7  All  other  forms  of  life  come 
into  the  world  with  an  inherited  instinct 
for  life's  full  measure,  an  intelligence  that, 
in  many  respects,  by  far  surpasses  that  of 
man.  Now,  then,  man  has  to  be  taught. 
He  may  be  taught  truth,  or  he  may  be  com- 
pelled to  believe  a  lie  instead  of  the  truth. 
If  he  is  taught  the  truth  in  the  beginning 
he  will  be  progressive  and  you  can  never 
hang  a  lie  on  him;  but  he  will  soar  on  to 
heights  of  intellectual  grandeur,  leading 
his  fellows  up  and  out  who  flounder  in  the 
fog  of  error  and  false  teaching.  Teach  him 
a  fie  in  the  early  days  of  his  life  when  his 
mind  is  plastic  and  susceptible,  and  the  task 
of  unlearning  that  lie  and  replacing  it  with 
truth  is  by  no  means  an  easy  one.  Es- 
pecially becomes  this  a  task  when  the  victim 
absorbed  it  from  a  source  in  which  he  had 
grown  to  confide,  as  in  the  case  of  the  suck- 
ing babe  who  comes  to  know  and  turns  in 
confidence' to  its  mother's  breast. 

"  Capitalism  is  a  false  teacher  of  life.  It 
is  a  liar!  Life  under  such  a  regime  is  a 
lie.  It  teaches,  not  life,  but  death.  It 
teaches,  not  truth,  but  error  and  falsehood. 
It  muddles  the  brain,  confuses  the  intellect, 
and  drives  men  to  crime,  loads  them  down 
with  disease  and  puts  them  into  premature 
graves.  It  sets  every  man  against  his 
brother  in  the  so-called  struggle  for  life. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  95 

It  poisons  the  generations  that  are,  with 
adulterated  foods,  and  it  poisons  the  gen- 
erations yet  unborn  with  ignorance  and 
mental  pollution.  It  suppresses  and  holds 
down  Art,  Literature,  Science  and  Love, 
and  rides,  rough  shod  over  the  morals  of 
the  race.  It  teaches  race-hatred  and  class- 
hatred;  it  fosters  prostitution  and  per- 
petuates slavery  wherever  it  holds  sway. 

"Now,  a  Socialist  is  a  progressive  person 
who  has  found  out  some  new  truth,  who  has 
repudiated  the  old  lie,  and  who  is  moved 
by  the  spirit  of  human  welfare  to  teach 
that  truth  to  his  fellows.  Should  he,  then, 
continue  to  hold  on  to  the  old  false  reason- 
ings— unreasonings— of  the  old  hate  and 
antagonisms  of  Capitalism,  or  do  you  not 
think  more  interest  may  be  engendered  in 
behalf  of  the  new  education  by  projecting 
the  more  transcendent  expedient  of  sym- 
pathy and  brotherly  love?  How  may  we 
best  reach  the  ignorant  and  the  vicious  and 
the  apathetic,  by  force  and  hatred?  Which 
of  the  two  teachers  will  be  the  more  suc- 
cessful with  the  pupil;  the  one  who  mani- 
festly loves  and  takes  pleasure  in  the  teach- 
ing, or  he  who  wields  the  big  stick  and  hues 
to  the  rigid  rule?" 

"Then  it  is  a  matter  of  tactics,  pure  and 
simple,  is  it — an  expedient  for  the  gaining 
of  your  selfish  ends — that  you  would  have 
those  whom  you  are  pleased  to  class  as 
ignorant  believe  you  love  them?"  piped  a 


96  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

little  weazened,  nervous  man,  one  of  the 
six  who  came  aboard  at  the  Fort. 

"No,  my  friend,"  Jack  replied,  "it  is 
grand  and  ennobling  to  love  all  nature  and 
all  things  in  the  universe;  and  a  more  piti- 
ful sight  I  cannot  conceive  than  the  man, 
in  a  world  of  progress  and  knowledge,  so 
ignorant  and  purblind  as  to  openly  oppose 
those  who  are  giving  their  lives  for  his  best 
interests.  They  are  men  who  are  trying  to 
help  him  on  to  a  higher  plane,  and  he  bites 
the  hand  that  would  save  him.  I  pity  such 
a  creature.  More,  I  love  him;  for  he  is  a 
member  of  the  race— my  race — :and  I  never 
forget  that  I  once  was  like  him,  and  as 
ignorant  as  he — possibly  more  so.  It  is  my 
duty  to  love  him,  because  he  is  blind,  and 
being  blind,  he  is  helpless  to  see  his  way. 
We  who  know  and  can  see  are  strong.  Some 
day  we  all  shall  see,  and  then  there  will  be 
no  weaknesses  and  no  error  among  men." 

"Say,  Jack,  why  don't  you  go  back  to  St. 
Louis,  take  out  a  license  and  go  to  preach- 
ing? You've  about  got  me  converted  to 
that  loveology  dope  of  yours,  already," 
cynically  teased  the  exasperating  Spanto. 
"And,"  he  frolicked  on,  gaily,  "if  to  love 
the  guy  that  pinks  you  in  the  back  is  such 
fine  medicine  for  the  regeneration  of  the 
race,  what's  the  matter  with  teaching  the 
habit  to  that  particular  individual,  and  in- 
fusing him  full  of  the  love  idea,  first?  And 
the  trust  barons'?  And  all  the  rest  of  the 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  97 

grafters  and  other  first  citizens  and  unhung 
criminals?  Now  honest,  Jack!  You've 
signed  a  big  contract.  There's  pretty  much 
everything  else  in  this  world  in  great  pro- 
fusion except  real  love.  I'm  beginning  to 
pity  you — I  am,  really,  Jack.  But  this  may 
be  taken  to  mean  that  you  are  winning  all 
the  time;  for,  you  know,"  pestered  the 
merciless  Spanto,  "pity  is  one  of  the  ingre- 
dients in  the  love-compound,  and  when  ad- 
ministered without  ether,  acts  directly  on 
the  palpi  of  the  epidermis,  exercising  a 
laxative  influence  on  the  lariats  of  the 
heart. ' ' 

At  this  grotesque  sally  the  crowd  laughed 
heartily  at  what  they  appeared  to  take  for 
a  good  one  on  Philips;  but  the  sunny  Jack 
only  grinned  good-humoredly,  and  slying  a 
cunning  wink  at  the  Indian  bride  came  back 
at  the  recreant  and  somewhat  tardy  bene- 
dict, with:  "I  think  you'd  better  give  in, 
Doc,  if  that  last  splurge  of  yours  is  the  best 
you  have  to  offer.  For  recent  events  seem 
to  indicate  that,  even  the  biggest  rogues  are 
sometimes  the  least  immune  from  the  in- 
trenching meshes  of  the  love-compound,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  term  it. "  A  little  ripple 
of  merriment  escaped  the  lips  of  the  modest 
Toy,  who  sprang  up  and  darted  forward 
and  around  the  pilot  house.  At  this  the 
fun  broke  out  anew,  and  everybody  turned 
on  the  herb-man.  "Take  the  money, 
Jack,"  he  surrendered,  "I'm  stung!  And 


98  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

now  that  the  question  is  before  the  house, 
let  someone  tell  us  what  this  thing  love  is, 
anyway." 

Up  to  this  point  Jason  Sands  had  re- 
mained silent  and  passive.  Love,  to  him, 
was  a  sacred  thing.  To  treat  the  subject 
lightly,  were  desecration.  When  the  flurry 
of  levity  had  subsided,  he  turned  to  his 
comrades,  removed  the  sombrero  from  his 
hoary  head  and  opened  his  mouth  to  speak, 
just  as  the  piercing  scream  of  a  woman, 
followed  by  a  splash  and  a  smothered  gur- 
gle, silenced  every  tongue  and  struck  terror 
to  the  hearts  of  all.  Instantly  there  was  a 
shock !  The  boat  shivered,  rose  on  her  heel, 
and  amid  belching  billows  of  yellow  smoke 
and  the  sound  of  crashing  wood  came  the 
roar  of  a  stunning  explosion !  Confusion — 
that's  the  word — mad  riot  and  indescrib- 
able confusion  reigned.  To  add  to  the  hor- 
ror, if  such  were  possible,  rose  the  cry  of 
"ship  on  fire,"  and  "the  ship  is  sinking!" 

It  was  twilight.  The  smoky  haze  in  the 
southwest  marked  where  the  sun  had  been 
an  hour  ago.  The  murky  shadows  falling 
on  the  river  through  the  nude  treetops  on 
the  bank,  looked  like  the  wagging  jaw  of 
some  snag-toothed  giant  witch  gloating  over 
the  ill-fortunes  of  the  race.  All  were 
thrown  off  their  feet  when  the  bow  went 
skyward.  When  the  ship  righted  and 
lurched  forward  again,  it  was  at  an  angle 
of  several  degrees,  and  with  a  jolt  and  a 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  99 

shudder  that  rolled  all  hands  in  a  heap 
against  the  engine  house. 

The  boat  had  been  blown  up  with  some 
high  explosive,  and  when  she  righted  after 
the  frightful  impact  of  the  charge,  she 
trembled,  balanced  her  ponderous  hulk 
briefly  like  a  drunken  sailor  then  dived 
with  her  broken  nose  straight  for  the  bot- 
tom of  the  river! 


CHAPTER   IV. 
THE  LAST  LEAF. 

Far  through  the  boding  gloom 
Suddenly  a  great  light  appeared! 

It  was  a  queer-looking  piece  of  first-class 
mail  matter  that  Lone  Mooney,  the  new 
rural  carrier,  left  at  Raven  Roost  one 
glorious  September  afternoon,  and  it  was  a 
puzzled  and  deeply  interested  mountain 
farmer  who  received  it. 

Leland  Tannerhill  was  not  a  literary 
beacon.  His  mail  was  a  very  inconsiderate 
item  of  importance  in  the  daily  mull  of  his 
lonely  life.  So,  when  the  slattern  youth 
rudely  kicked  a  huge  package  over  the 
wagon  wheel  at  him  without  thawing  out 
enough  to  pass  the  time  of  day,  he  eyed  the 
numerously  stamped  and  generously  pen- 
ciled thing  with  wonderful  scrutiny.  It  was 
a  new  one  on  him,  and  he  was  clearly 
stumped. 

Leland  was  a  subscriber  to  the  Ash- 
worth  Item,  Happjon-an's  Aberrant,  and 
the  Montly  Gopherhole,  the  latter,  an  al- 
leged journal  for  tillers  of  the  soil,  pub- 
lished at  O'Pallon,  111.  The  Item  was  the 
"old  reliable,"  printing  the  "news,"  which 
news  comprised:  Births,  Deaths,  and  such 

(100) 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  101 

other  information  as  interests  nosey  people, 
and  sheriff  sales,  etc. 

The  Aberrant  was  all  its  adapt  cognomen 
implied,  and  more.  In  addition  to  its 
local  column,  which  never  failed  to  inform 
its  readers  that,  Buttertoad  Smith,  of 
Centre  Harbor  Neck,  was  visiting  "rela- 
tives and  friends"  at  Hinklyville;  that 
Tommy  Soagden,  of  Kittery,  would  spend 
a  few  days  at  the  Tie  Eanch  near  Foggs 
Station,  all  sandwiched  in  between  the  mar- 
ket fluctuations  on  cow  peas,  labor  and 
Berkshire  shoats.  It  was,  like  its  profligate 
editor,  a  notorious  liar.  It  strictly  ab- 
stained from  printing  anything  resembling 
truth,  satisfying  its  gormand  lust  for  scan- 
dal by  attacking  the  character  of  every  de- 
cent citizen  who  was  not  a  subscriber,  and 
some  who  were.  Also,  it  was  a  past  master 
at  misrepresenting  the  opposition  political 
parties,  fairly  engulfing  itself  with  parox- 
ysms of  benevolent  solicitude  for  the 
" worthy "  poor,  just  prior  to  election. 

However,  it  was  a  fair  sample  of  the 
average  country  newspaper,  and  its  inflic- 
tion on  the  rural  populace  was,  with  few 
exceptions,  borne,  either  in  silent  contempt, 
or  with  grudging  tolerance. 

These  three  publications— if  such  they 
may  be  called—,  together  with  an  occa- 
sional spavin  cure  almanac,  tnx  assessments, 
and  the  monthly  pew  rent  duns,  comprised 
Leland's  regular  annual  mail.  A  letter  he 


102  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

had  not  received    since    far    beyond    his 
recollection. 

No  word  of  greeting  spoken,  the  rickerty 
old  buggy  cramped  around  the  well  curb 
in  the  middle  of  the  dooryard  and  was 
slowly  squeaking  along  toward  the  gate  at 
the  end  of  the  lane,  when  Tannerhill  sud- 
denly straightened  up,  and  pushing  back  a 
sweat-begrimed  palm-leaf  hat,  called  sharp- 
ly: " What's  your  hurry,  Lone?  I  hain't 
seen  you  f er  some  time.  How 's  yer  father  ? ' ' 

At  first  sound  of  the  man's  voice,  the  old 
grey  mare  seemed  suddenly  to  remember 
something!  She  sat  back  in  the  britchen 
with  a  "chug,"  all  four  feet  braced  on  the 
steep  incline,  and  stopped— short.  Like- 
wise, the  wagon  stopped.  Then  the  new 
government  attache,  together  with  the  as- 
sorted and  classified  mail  he  had  stacked  up 
on  the  seat  beside  him  for  handy  delivery, 
stopped— that  is,  began  to  stop— stopped 
after  a  while,  a  little  farther  on  down  the 
hill!  The  rawney  sapling  scrambled  from 
under  the  horse's  feet,  and  Leland  turned 
his  back  and  laughed,  silently,  though  per- 
ceptibly, with  his  shoulders— an  eccentric- 
ity characteristic  of  some  generously  mod- 
est and  charitable  men.  Meanwhile,  angry 
youth  and  grey  mare  proceeded  to  go 
through  the  formality  of  adjusting  their 
respective  differences  of  opinion  concerning 
mail  clerk  etiquette,  lax  horsemanship  and 
general  horse  sense.  When  the  ether  had 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  103 

cleared,  the  older  man  ventured,  by  way 
of  oiling  the  troubled  waters:  "When  d'ge 
start  in  fer  Uncle  Sam,  boy?  Like  the 
job?"  Ignoring  the  other's  interrogations, 
the  novice  United  States  wage-slave—pro 
tern. — red  and  wrathful,  shied  a  casual  ob- 
servation at  the  smoking  sun,  prophesied 
the  intelligence  that  it  looked  "laowry  fer 
tumorrer,"  clucked,  softly,  to  old  Kate  and 
went  weaving  easily  down  Winding  Hill. 
The  stoic  Leland  watched  the  receding  out- 
fit cross  the  last  pitch-pole  at  the  bottom 
and  go  clattering  off  on  the  New  Eoad  and 
in  to  the  Jewell  woods. 

There  are  some  things  slower  than  others 
in  this  world,  and  things  do  not  move  with 
as  much  celerity  in  the  New  Hampshire 
hills  as  they  do  at  Reno  and  on  Wall  Street. 
Tannerhill  did  not  open  his  mail  at  once, 
but  seated  himself  on  the  well-curb  and  re- 
garded it  long  and  thoughtfuly.  Painstak- 
ingly he  spelled  out  the  characters— blurred 
and  soiled  among  the  stamps— that  made 
up  his  name  and  address. 

"Who  this  side  o*  the  Promised  Land 
can  thet  air  be  frum!"  he  meditated.  Then 
espying  the  return  address  in  the  upper 
left  hand  corner,  he  paused,  traced  it  out 
with  a  gnarled  index  finger  and  read. 

Tf  Not  Delivered  In  Six  Months,  Return  to 
BENJAMIN  B.   PAGE 

High  Heath, 

"Broken  Bone  Mine," 

Alaska,  U.  S.  A. 


104  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

Leland  Tannerhill  was  a  good  man.  It 
was  said  of  him  that  he  could  not  kill  a 
chicken  without  shedding  tears.  It  was  his 
boast  that  he  had  never  struck  a  living 
thing  a  blow  in  all  his  life.  Also  he  boasted 
he  could  pick  up  any  hen  on  the  place,  any- 
where, and  at  any  time  of  day  or  night.  All 
the  animals  about  Raven  Roost  attested 
their  confidence  in  their  master's  love  and 
kindness,  by  every  conceivable  form  of 
friendly  demonstration.  Even  the  wild 
robins  knew  him  as  their  friend  and  would 
eat  from  his  hand.  Imagine,  then,  the  sur- 
prise of  the  great  Brahma  rooster,  when  he 
sauntered  up  to  peck  at  the  rawhide  ends 
on  the  gruesome  bundle,  and  like  lightning, 
and  without  warning,  got  a  vicious  kick 
from  one  of  Leland 's  size-10  cowhides.  So 
indignant  and  frightened  was  the  lordly 
chanticleer,  that  he  squalled  out  the  cus- 
tomary danger  signal  in  case  of  hawks  with 
such  vehemence  as  to  enlist  the  entire  barn- 
yard population  in  a  wild  discordant  chorus 
that  lasted  an  hour.  But  Leland  Tanner- 
hill  heard  it  not.  Too  absorbed  was  he  in 
a  futile  effort  at  fathoming  the  mystery  of 
the  strange  prize  that  had  come  so  far 
through  the  mails,  unsought,  unannounced, 
and  from  a  stranger. 

Long  and  silently  the  good  man  sat  there 
in  the  shade  of  the  great  maple  and  cudg- 
eled his  brain  with  thought.  Carefully 
turning  the  mental  pages,  he  ran  back  over 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  105 

the  long,  weary  years  of  an  uneventful  life, 
but  years,  forsooth,  filled  with  sadness, 
loneliness,  and  toil.  Vainly  did  he  try  to 
recall  some  ancient  promise  of  a  forgotten 
friend;  counting  them  back,  one  by  one,  as 
they  had  died  off,  and  all  he  could  think  of 
among  the  living.  It  was  no  use.  They 
were  gone!  None  of  the  chums  he  could 
think  of  bore  the  unfamiliar  name  of  Ben- 
jamin B.  Page,  and  the  mystery  deepened 
with  each  rereading  of  the  alien  legend  in 
the  upper  left  hand  corner  of  the  soiled 
paper  wrapper. 

Twice  had  he  started  to  open  it,  turning 
it  over  and  over  to  find  the  right  end  of 
the  string,  and  twice  had  he  subsided  with 
great  gravity  and  meditation.  "Page, 
Page!  Benjamin  Page!"  ponderously  re- 
peated the  baffled  recluse,  over  and  over 
again,  as  if  to  familiarize  his  tongue  with 
the  strange  articulation,  the  better  to  resur- 
rect a  possible  memory— long  since  dead— 
of  some  person  by  that  name. 

Slowly  raising  his  snow-white  head,  Le- 
land  Tannerhill  looked  out  over  the  vast 
panorama  to  the  horizon  before  him.  He 
knew  every  intervening  hill,  lake,  river  and 
valley.  Also,  he  knew,  as  he  soliloquized, 
"  every  neighbor  old  and  new  for  forty  mild 
around;  but  Mr.  Page  must  a  bin  afore  my 
time,  or  else  he's  somebody  thet  went  off. 
out  West  when  I  was  too  young  to  recollect, 
maybe.  Anyway,"  he  concluded,  "nobody 


106  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

I  ever  knowed  ever  had  any  sich  a  bell 
lamg  on  'em,  and  the  marster  on't  is,  thet 
they  should  know  me,  whoever  they  be. ' ' 

Raven  Roost  (so  named  by  old  Bart 
Tannerhill's  beautiful  daughter)  stood,  like 
a  fort,  on  the  top  of  a  low  lying  hill  among 
the  higher  mountains.  The  buildings  were 
at  the  far  end  of  a  lane  leading  up  the 
west  slope  from  a  tiny  schoolhouse  on  the 
main  thoroughfare  and  painted  red,  the 
back  sill  of  which  rested  on  a  granite  ledge, 
while  the  front  was  propped  up  with  piles 
of  cobble-stones  six  feet  high,  and  that  wab- 
bled and  threatened  to  collapse  and  send  it 
tumbling  down  into  Dan  Willoughby's  sap 
orchard. 

The  Tannerhills  had  helped  to  settle  the 
country  in  the  early  days  of  the  flint-lock 
and  the  bow.  But  the  strain  had  dwindled. 
Of  the  latter  generation  there  were  but  two 
children:  Erma,  whose  name  for  twenty 
years  had  not  been  spoken,  and  Leland,  the 
only  survivor.  He  was  a  big  man,  with 
great  freckled  hands  and  a  big  warm  heart ; 
but  he  had  never  married.  He  had  stayed 
there  on  the  old  place  alone  after  the  others 
had  gone,  one  by  one,  visiting  never,  and 
being  visited  seldom  more  often,  he  was  a 
sad  and  silent  man.  He  was  the  last  leaf  on 
the  tree— the  last  leaf,  and  it  was  autumn! 

He  turned  his  eyes  westward,  and  there 
stretched  the  Prescott  range,  with  Mount 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  107 

Prospect  in  the  foreground.  Looking  to 
the  south,  he  could  see  Sheapards  and  the 
Asquam  Castle  on  the  summit.  To  the 
east  in  the  valley  lay  beautiful  Squam 
Lake,  stretching  its  clear  waters  with  its 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  islands  from 
i "Joe's"  point,  under  the  Lone  Pine  Hill, 
to  Bearcamp  on  the  north,  and  under 
the  dark  brok  of  old  Chickwolnepy.  He 
could  count  up  all  the  old  schoolmates. 
And  he  ran  over  the  list  to  make  sure: 
There  were  the  Sanborns,  and  the  Mudgetts, 
the  Bennetts,  and  the  Howe  boys,  George 
and  Olando.  And  then  there  was  "Ginger- 
bread Red,"  who  lived  on  the  Mountain 
Brown  place,  and  who  wore  the  fuzzy  red 
homespun  breeches  dyed  with  butternut 
bark.  Bill  Low  and  the  Wallaces,  Hattie 
Smith  and  Mamie  Stevens— yes,  and  the 
Lee  girls,  Hattie  and  Susie.  O,  he  could 
remember  them  all  right,  but  they  were 
gone! 

That  was  in  the  old  days  before  the  city 
folks  came  and  bought  up  all  the  country 
for  summer  camps.  It  was  different  now. 
Every  one  of  the  wild,  wooded  islands  in 
the  lake  had  been  gobbled  up  and  were 
covered  with  cottages.  Every  farm  on  the 
white  sandy  shores  of  the  dear  old  lake 
was  in  the  clutches  of  millionaires,  who 
carried  their  heads  high  and  their  noses 
higher,  as  if  they  smelt  a  stink.  The  pam- 
pered sons  and  daughters  of  these  plunder- 


108  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

ing  parasites  tore  through  the  hills  in  their 
great  touring  cars,  frightening  the  country 
horses  and  killing  the  farmers'  fowl  with 
impunity. 

Raven  Boost  was  severely  shunned.  In 
fact,  it  was  said  to  be  haunted.  That  the 
old  Puritan  mansion  had  gained  its  un- 
canny reputation  because  of  having  been 
named  by  his  beloved  sister,  Erma,  was  no 
secret  to  Leland.  She  had  so  named  it  in 
honor  of  Poe's  Raven,  which,  being  a 
poet  of  rare  genius  herself,  she  used  to 
declare  to  be  the  masterpiece  of  the  "Poor 
Poet  of  Sorrows."  Haunted  or  not  haunt- 
ed, Leland  Tannerhill  continued  to  live 
alone  in  the  big  square  house,  in  peace,  and 
unafraid.  Cultivating  as  much  of  the  rich, 
black  soil  as  one  man  could  comfortably 
care  for,  he  allowed  the  rest  to  grow  up  to 
bushes.  Owing  no  man  a  cent  in  all  the 
world,  he  had  no  enemy  as  far  as  he  knew 
on  earth.  Moreover,  and  as  he  had  grown 
to  realize  with  the  passing  years,  he  had  no 
friends.  "Not  a  single,  solitary  soul  in  all 
the  world  since  the  days  of  Sis  and  Jason 
Sands,"  he  would  cry  aloud.  "I  am  here 
alone !  Jason  was  the  last  and  he  too  must 
be  dead." 

A  glance  toward  the  west  revealed  but 
half  of  the  red  disk  slipping  down  behind 
Plymouth  Mountain.  The  chickens  so 
noisome  just  now  had  gone  to  roost  under 
the  cow-shed  by  the  barn,  and  were  quar- 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  109 

reling  because  the  older  cockerels,  as  usual, 
were  unmercifully  pecking  the  immature 
youngsters  and  crowding  them  off  the 
perches.  They  did  this  nightly  in  their 
selfish  efforts  to  gain  some  vantage  point 
beside  a  plump,  red-combed  pullet. 

It  was  getting  late. 

The  shadows  grew  longer  and  deeper 
over  the  glassy  lake.  The  melancholy  tinkle, 
tinkle  of  the  brass  cowbell  in  the  lane  grew 
louder  among  the  sleepy  nightsounds  of  the 
verdant  mountain.  Leland  heard,  and  knew 
that  old  Bess  was  at  the  pasture  bars  with 
her  load  of  pure,  rich  milk.  Night  was 
coming  on.  It  was  time  to  do  the  chores. 

With  the  woodbox  refilled,  the  milk 
strained  and  put  away  and  a  fresh  pail  of 
water  on  the  sinkboard,  Leland  drew  his 
chair  up  to  the  kitchen  table  and  turned 
all  his  attention  to  the  bulky  thing  before 
him.  Taking  from  his  pocket  a  wire  nail, 
he  proceeded  to  untie  the  moosehide  thong, 
picking  out  each  knot  and  foregoing  the 
cutting  of  any,  abundant  though  they  were 
and  hard.  The  string  off  whole  at  last, 
there  was  yards  of  it.  "Five,  eight— ten," 
he  calculated,  as  he  economically  untwisted 
every  quirk  and  wound  it  around  his  big 
left  hand,  then  into  a  tight  ball.  He  was  in 
no  hurry.  It  could  not  escape  him,  this 
new-found  treasure  from  the  top  of  the 
world,  and  he  would  take  his  time  and  learn 
all  about  it  as  he  went  along.  Minutely 


110  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

examining  the  thin  rawhide  through  his 
reading  glasses,  he  critically  ran  the  ball 
of  his  thumb  along  the  grain  side  for  hairs, 
then  he  tried  to  break  it.  He  wound  sev- 
eral feet  of  it  around  his  hands  and  pulled 
on  it  with  all  his  might  over  the  bend  of 
his  knee.  But  the  faithful  rawhide — the 
one  cord  that  never  breaks— though  the  day 
was  dry,  stretched  beautifully  and  the  tell- 
tale red  marked  where  it  sank  deep  into  the 
toil-hardened  hands,  but  it  would  not  break. 

"Buoy  'tunder!"  blasphemed  the  pious 
Leland.  "Thet  air  thing  never  growed  on 
no  caow,  ner  hoss,  nuther!"  And  then  he 
tried  it  once  more.  This  time  standing  up 
and  taking  several  turns  around  his  hands, 
he  dropped  the  loop  under  his  boot,  and 
with  all  his  terrific  strength  he  pulled- 
hands,  arms,  back  and  legs— until  his  face 
purpled  and  the  tears  came ;  but  the  slender 
rawhide  went  with  him  and  came  back  and 
was  not  broken.  The  saving  farmer  smiled 
his  pleasure,  walked  to  the  corner  where  a 
clock  ten  feet  high  was  standing  where  it 
had  stood  for  fifty  years,  opened  the  door  in 
the  bottom  and  dropped  the  ball  in  among 
the  weights. 

Turning  sharply  to  face  the  clock,  the 
man  started  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had 
struck  him,  as  a  reminder  of  a  tardy  mis- 
sion that  must  be  fulfilled.  "Your 're  late 
tonight,  Leal.,"  he  admonished  himself. 
Then  lighting  a  smoky  lantern,  though  it 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  Ill 

was  not  yet  dark,  and  slipping  a  small, 
black  object  under  his  arm  from  the  mantel- 
shelf, he  shot  a  swift  weather-glance  at  the 
sky  through  the  west  window  and  was  gone. 

He  did  not  lock  the  great  oaken  door. 
In  fact,  it  was  never  locked.  He  paused  a 
moment  among  the  rose-bushes,  then  turn- 
ing into  a  well-worn  path  was  soon  lost 
among  the  trees.  This  was  his  nightly  er- 
rand. He  had  not  missed  this  duty  but 
once  in  twenty  years,  and  that  was  when 
the  fever  had  him  on  his  back. 

It  was  far  into  the  night  when  the  red 
glow  of  the  lantern  came  out  of  the  maple 
growth  above  the  meadow  and  vanished 
into  the  old  house.  And  what  of  his  sur- 
prise on  returning  to  find  a  second  package 
from  Alaska  addressed  in  a  different  hand 
but  bearing  the  same  return  address  as  the 
first!  The  two  were  lying  side  by  side  on 
the  table,  and  the  only  way  to  account  for  it 
was  that  the  carrier  had  overlooked  the 
smaller  one  on  his  first  trip,  and  had  called 
on  his  return  and  left  it  while  Leland  was 
absent.  It  was  unimportant  anyway.  He 
would  lose  no  time  in  idle  speculation. 
Tearing  the  wrapper  from  the  first,  he  fell 
upon  a  strange  collection  of  letters,  papers, 
poems  and  songs,  essays  and  stories;  all 
save  the  letters  bearing  the  unmistakable 
signature  of  Jason  Sands.  Also  there  was 
a  letter  addressed  to  himself,  and  with 
greedy  haste  and  trembling  hands  he 
opened  it  and  read: 


112  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"Alaska,  April  22nd,  1910. 
"  'Broken  Bone'  mine. 
"Dear  Leal:— 

"It  has  been  a  long  time  since  yon  heard 
from  me,  for  they  have  kept  me  moving  on 
and  on,  always  moving  on  from  place  to 
place  over  the  earth,  hither  and  yon  like 
the  chaff  on  the  winds  of  the  wild  prairie. 
This  is  the  fate  of  the  man  who  works  for 
wages.  This  is  the  fate  of  the  man  who 
dares  to  dream.  It  is  the  fate  of  twenty 
millions  of  human  souls  in  America,  and  I 
am  one  of  them! 

"I  have  never  ceased  to  think  of  you,  as 
I  have  never  ceased  to  think  of  our  dear 
lost  Erma.  I  remember  your  promise  to 
me  on  the  day  that  she  said  goodbye,  that 
you  would  keep  the  roses  she  loved  so 
dearly  bloomin  g  above  her  cold  clay.  I 
know  you  have  not  forgotten,  and  I  am 
coming  back  to  see  you  once  more  and  to 
tell  you  that  I  cannot  find  our  boy. 

"Four  years  ago  I  came  to  this  grave  of 
last  resorts,  where  everything  is  frozen  all 
the  time  and  where  the  fire  went  out  on  the 
first  Saturday  night  when  God  quit  work 
on  the  world.  There  is  gold  enough  here  to 
plate  the  earth,  and  I  have  some  of  it;  but 
it  is  all  frozen  in,  and  only  a  few  succeed 
where  many  fail. 

"Tonight  I  shall  start  afoot  for  Dawson, 
four  hundred  miles  away.  The  boat  will 
take  me  down  the  river  from  there,  and 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  113 

once  on  the  outside,  I  shall  lose  no  time 
in  reaching  you. 

"This  package  contains  all  my  personal 
property  save  what  is  in  my  pack  and  on 
my  back.  I  am  entrusting  all  to  my  friend 
and  partner,  Benjamin  Page,  who  will  have 
it  mailed  to  you  by  the  first  dog  outfit 
through  the  pass.  I  thought  it  safer  this 
way,  as  I  am  going  on  foot  and  alone  and 
you  never  can  tell.  Take  care  of  it  till  I 
see  you,  old  boy,  for,  as  you  will  see,  there 
are  some  things  therein  contained  more 
sacred  to  me  than  life  itself.  I  have  kept 
them,  spitball  notes  and  all,  and  they  have 
gone  with  me  wherever  my  feet  have  trod. 
You  are  at  liberty  to  read  them,  for  you 
know  all  the  sad  story  and  you  and  I  are 
one. 

"If  nothing  happens  I  should  reach 
Raven  Roost  early  in  September;  so  be 
on  the  lookout  for  me,  and  remember  I  am 
your  old  friend  and  brother, 

" JASON"  SANDS." 

So  it  was  from  Mm  at  last!  Leland  Tan- 
nerhill's  joy  knew  no  bounds!  He  read  the 
missive  over  and  over,  again  and  again.  He 
was  coming  home— Jason  Sands!  His 
heart  beat  faster,  and  he  could  hear  it 
pounding  against  his  breast  like  a  drum. 
He  laid  the  letter  down,  and  with  lamp  in 
hand  entered  the  front  room,  whose 
weather-worn  shades  had  not  been  opened 
since  the  last  funeral,  and  turning  the 


114  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

leaves  of  an  ancient  plush-covered  album 
until  he  came  to  an  old-fashioned  double 
picture,  he  gazed  reverently  upon  the  two 
faces.  With  the  album  still  open  before 
him,  and  palsied  with  emotion,  he  sank  to 
his  knees,  raised  aloft  his  trembling  right 
hand  in  earnest  appeal  and  cried  out  wildly, 
almost  incoherently:  "O  Heavenly  Father! 
Keep  Jason  Sands  and  fetch  him  back  safe 
to  me.  I  want  to  see  him  once  more  here, 
and  then  I'm  willin'  ter  go!"  Then  draw- 
ing the  picture  from  its  old  place  in  the 
album,  he  turned  it  over  and  read  two 
names  written  in  a  clear,  bold  hand  on  the 
back  "Erma  and  Jason."  Below  the  line 
this,  also,  was  written  in  a  soft,  feminine 
hand  and  with  violet  ink:  "He,  and  She." 
"There  they  be,  the  two  on  'em,"  he  said, 
great  tears  clinging  to  his  sun-browned 
cheeks. 

"If  God  only  knowed  how  thet  man  has 
suffered  he'd  give  her  back  to  him  now  I 
know,"  he  went  on  hysterically.  "No  two 
children  ever  lived  thet  thought  as  much  of 
one  another  as  them  air  two  lovin'  ones  did, 
and  there  weren't  none  better  ever  drawed 
the  breath  o'  life  than  either  on  'em."  Poor 
Leland!  His  broken  heart  was  bleeding 
anew.  For  if  ever  a  brother  loved  a  sister 
it  was  he;  and  no  brother  could  have  more 
loved  Jason  Sands  than  did  this  brother  of 
Erma.  In  the  picture,  Jason  was  seated 
in  a  rustic  chair,  his  great  shoulders  thrown 


"He  gazed  reverently  upon  the  two  faces/' 


THE  TORCPI  OF  REASON.  115 

back  advertising  the  secret  pride  their  pos- 
sessor felt  in  the  consciousness  of  his  manly 
strength  and  in  the  companionship  of  his 
handsome  mate.  And  there  just  back  of 
him,  stood  the  beautiful  young  creature, 
eyes  aglow  with  happiness,  her  arm  stealing 
slyly  around  his  shoulder  and  just  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  showing  through  his  curly 
hair.  She  was  loving  him  there  in  the  pic- 
ture. 

"Poor  Erm,"  he  said,  "You're  in 
Heaven,  God  bless  ye,  and  I'll  try  to  wait; 
but  I  only  hope  it  won 't  be  long  arfter  Jase 
comes.  I'm  tired,  Erm,  I  be,  God  help 
me!" 

Closing  the  album  he  went  back  to  his 
letters  in  the  kitchen.  He  knew  her  hand- 
writing, and  all  the  letters  addressed  to 
Jason  he  piled  together.  He  had  seen  them 
all  before.  In  fact,  he  had  helped  her  in 
their  writing,  keeping  watch  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  for  the  old  folks  and  stealing 
away  to  Jason's  with  them  at  dead  of  night 
when  all  was  still.  It  was  a  clandestine  cor- 
respondence—clandestine with  the  cunning 
codes  of  lovers'  sweet  intrigue.  Drawing 
a  thin  one  from  among  the  many  thick  ones, 
he  began  to  read  again  the  faded  lines 
across  the  soiled  envelope,  but  it  was  too 
much!  The  arms  stretched  out  across  the 
table  and  the  snow-white  head  sank  down 
upon  them.  Heavily  the  massive  shoulders 
heaved  with  emotion  as  the  lonely  and  be- 


116  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

reaved  brother  sobbed  out  the  bitter  an- 
guish of  his  broken  heart.  The  hours  of 
night  slipped  swiftly  away  with  the  tolling 
of  the  old  clock  in  the  corner.  The  shoul- 
ders ceased  their  heaving,  and  began  to  rise 
and  fall  evenly  with  the  deepdrawn  breath- 
ing. The  goddess  of  rest  had  mercifully 
touched  the  troubled  brow  and  the  sinless 
son  of  sorrow  was  sleeping. 

It  was  the  breakfast  call  of  old  Bess  in 
the  barnyard  three  hours  later  that  aroused 
him  from  his  slumber  to  face  two  burning 
lamps  and  the  sun  an  hour  high  over  Red 
Hill. 

To  milk  and  get  the  cow  out,  feed  the 
chickens  and  the  pigs,  was  the  work  of  but 
half  an  hour.  Meanwhile,  water  boiled  in 
the  teakettle,  and  with  a  breakfast  of  ham- 
and-eggs,  biscuits,  coffee,  and  a  pint  of 
warm  fresh  milk,  Leland  attacked  the  sec- 
ond package,  which  as  yet  he  had  not 
opened.  The  first  thing  to  catch  his  eye 
was  this  letter  from  Ben  Page : 
"Mr.  Leland  Tannerhill, 
"Dear  Sir:- 

"I  don't  know  you  nor  you  don't  know 
me;  but  when  you  get  this  you  will  know 
that  I  ain't  no  schoolmarm.  I  wouldn't 
bother  nobody  with  my  poor  writin',  only, 
you  see,  Jason  Sands  was  my  pard,  and  he 's 
cut  traces  and  flew,  and  I'm  skat  and  wor- 
ried about  him,  for  wolves  is  thicker 'n  hell 
hereabouts  and  nothin'  but  them  and  sich 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  117 

fools  as  I  be  can  live  here.  God  never 
cal'lated  on  nothin'  but  them  there  gant- 
gutted  hellcats  and  jack  rabbits  for  this 
yere  country,  and  Jason  showed  good  sense 
in  quittin'. 

"But  that  ain't  what  I  started  out  to  tell 
about,  exactly,  and  right  here  I  want  you 
to  know  that  it  ain't  no  snap  for  me  to 
write  letters  no  how.  So,  the  whole  thing 
in  a  nut  shell,  as  they  say,  is,  that  I  got 
mad  like  a  damn  fool  and  run  off  from 
Jason,  and  while  I  was  makin'  faces  at 
myself  and  ponderin'  over  comin'  back, 
Jason  he  ups  and  lights  out.  He  left  a 
letter  for  me  that  it  took  me  four  days  to 
read  and  that  nobody  can  understand,  and 
wanted  me  to  mail  all  his  stuff  to  you. 
I  reckon  he's  struck  for  Dawson  and 
the  outside,  and  probably  will  fetch  up  at 
your  place  if  he  ain't  eat  up  on  the  way 
out,  and  if  he  ain't,  most  probably  he  allows 
to  hit  the  first  boat  down  behind  the  ice. 
I  wisht  he  had  a  waited;  for  the  hole  he 
was  burnin'  was  jist  a  foot  from  a  pocket 
when  he  quit,  and  when  I  struck  it  the 
yeller  showed  on  the  pick  pint  like  it  was 
plated;  and  that  there  hole  looks  like  the 
show  winder  of  a  city  hawk  joint.  I  picked 
up  a  hatful  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  the  sam- 
ple I'm  sending  you  you  keep  and  write  as 
soon  as  you  get  it,  so  I  will  know  you  get 
the  rest  of  Jason's  literchure  dope  and  the 
Indian  moccasins  and  the  rest  I  dug  out 
of  his  bunk  and  stuffed  in  the  bundle. 


118  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"I  ain't  goiii'  to  fret  much  about  him, 
for  Jason  Sands  ain't  af  eared  of  no  thin' 
and  he  can  fight  wolves  to  beat  hell.  But  he 
was  a  good  pardner,  and  I  kinder  feel  bad 
about  the  way  I  acted,  and  miss  him  after 
three  years  with  him,  fightin'  agin  God's 
carelessness  and  them  there  ravin'  fiends 
and  only  one  spat.  He  was  a  regular  crank 
on  poetry,  and  used  to  tear  it  off  to  me  by 
the  yard  of  a  evenin',  sad  and  pityful  like 
by  times,  specially  that  purty  stuff  'bout 
love  and  sich  like.  I  tell  you  it  would  nigh 
break  a  body's  heart  and  give  you  the  Jim- 
mies to  hear  it  when  the  spirit  took  him. 
He  never  used  terbarker,  nor  drinked,  and 
never  sent  out  for  much  but  pencils  and 
paper  and  cartridges,  no  time;  but  he  sure 
did  like  to  write. 

"Now  he  never  told  me  a  word  about  his 
inner  secrets  until  he  writ  that  letter,  but 
he  was  allus  rantin'  about  politics  and 
economics  and  that  there  rot,  and  I  think 
he  must  be  a  arnikist,  and  is  agin  religion; 
for  we  fit  over  the  Bible  and  what  he  said 
religion  was  invented  for.  He  said  religion 
was  invented  by  some  barbarians  or  thieves 
or  suthin',  so  as  how  them  slick  cusses  that 
never  does  nothin'  but  work  with  their 
brains  could  rob  everybody  that  worked 
with  their  hands  by  makin'  the  laws  to  suit, 
and  the  damn  fools  would  think  it  was 
God's  will!  I  come  right  back  at  him  good 
and  hard  and  asked  him  to  tell  me  how  we 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  119 

ever  could  get  along  without  them  high- 
flown  gentlemen  that's  rich  to  hire  us  if 
we  driv  'em  off  and  took  possession  as  he 
proposed,  and  he  hollered  and  laughed  like 
a  idiot  and  asked  me  what  in  hell  I  wanted 
somebody  to  hire  me  to  burn  my  own  hole 
and  then  to  wash  up  my  own  dust  for? 

"Anyway,  there  wern't  no  better  than  he, 
take  him  all  round,  ever  walked  the  earth, 
even  if  he  don't  believe  in  God.  Mebbe 
he  had  good  reasons  for  thinkin'  that  way 
after  all,  for  he  claimed  to  be  one  of  them 
there  scientist  philos'fers  or  whatever  you 
call  'em,  and  there  ain't  no  use  argyin  agin 
'em  for  they  got  you  skinned  erry  way  you 
tackle  'em.  Besides,  suthin'  had  hit  him 
purty  hard  sometime  in  his  life,  for  he 
wern  't  happy  a  minute  while  I  knowed  him, 
but  was  allus  mopin'  around  like  he  hadn't 
a  friend  on  earth.  His  letter  shows  it  too, 
and  I  guess  I  was  wrong. 

"Now  I  never  was  much  on  mind  readin'. 
But  the  way  that  there  letter  winds  up,  it 
don't  appeal  to  me  as  bein'  jist  right,  some- 
way; and  so,  if  you  get  this  o.  k.  before 
he  lands,  I'd  kinder  keep  an  eye  out  for 
your  old  friend  for  he  saved  my  life  wornst 
when  I  was  froze  and  starved  most  to  death 
up  on  the  Hedghog.  I'll  never  forget  him, 
even  if  he  did  say  he'd  rather  go  to  Hell 
with  a  clean  record  than  to  Heaven  along 
with  them  there  'Big  Stick'  square  deal 
fakirs  that  got  the  Maine  blowed  up. 


120  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"You  and  him  must  a  bin  good  friends, 
for  lie  allus  spoke  of  you  whenever  he  got 
the  blues  and  had  them  awful  dreams. 

"Yours  truly, 

"BEN  PAGE." 

"P.  S.— There's  a  fortune  in  sight  on  our 
property— Jason's  and  mine—,  and  half 
on't  is  hisn;  for  he  divided  his  chuck  with 
me  when  he  needed  it  all  his  self,  and  I 
can't  tech  his  half  now  we've  struck  it  rich 
and  luck's  changed.  I'm  sending  the  letter 
Jase  left  for  me,  to  you,  and  if  you  say  so, 
I'll  go  to  Dawson  and  sell  the  mine  and  go 
on  a  sure  enough  hunt  for  that  boy  of  his. 
Or  we'll  wait  and  leave  it  all  to  his  dad, 
whichever  you  say. 

"B.  P." 

Tannerhill  was  thoroughly  aroused.  The 
prospect  of  Jason  coming  thrilled  him  and 
filled  him  with  boyish  glee.  But  Page's 
letter  displeased  him.  In  fact  it  nettled 
him. 

"Gold!"  he  fairly  growled,  and  repeated 
the  ugly  word  again  and  again.  "He  sent 
me  a  sample,  did  he!  Well,  I'm  much 
'bliged,  Mr.  Page.  But  I  don't  need  it  jist 
yit,  and  as  fur's  writin'  to  you's  concerned, 
we'll  see  to  thet  later."  Whereupon,  he 
returned  to  the  task  of  going  through  the 
packages. 

"Gold!"  Give  him  the  "pizen"  stuff  and 
he  would  make  jshort  work  of  it!  Hadn't 
he  seen  enough  trouble  on  account  of  it? 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  121 

What  of— Her,  his  poor,  lost  sister!  What 
of  the  banker  down  in  the  village  who  died 
in  rags  after  spending  a  fortune  shielding 
that  coward  son  of  his  that  shot  Jason,  only 
to  read  in  the  papers  that  he  in  turn  got 
himself  shot  in  a  "fast"  house  in  Boston! 

"Gold!"  he  fumed  on.  " Torment  their 
money!  It  can  never  give  back  what  it 
took  from  me  and  Him.  Jason 'n  her'd  a 
bin  happy  only  for  the  greed  o'  thet  cussed 
yarler  dross.  Mother  couldn't  see  through 
it  though,  how  thet  them  air  young 
folks  was  goin'  to  be  happier  with  their 
likes  for  one  another,  than  Sis  would  a  bin 
to  be  the  wife  o'  that  sponge-faced  worm- 
head  with  all  his  tainted  gold.  And  to 
think  thet  Jason  Sands  would  run  away  off 
up  there  on  top  o'  the  north  pole,  a 
freezin'  and  a  starvin'  to  death  is  beyend 
me,  by  Judas!  It's  curis,  mighty  curis!" 

The  man  was  much  agitated.  And  when 
a  huge  bright  nugget  rolled  out  from  among 
the  letters  and  papers  and  fell  with  a  leaden 
thud  to  the  floor,  he  snatched  it  up  with  the 
evident  intention  of  throwing  it,  either  into 
the  stove  or  through  the  window;  but  hesi- 
tated, then  raised  it  to  the  light.  The  coun- 
tenance of  the  man  underwent  a  lightning 
change.  First  it  was  anger,  then  surprise, 
and  now  it  was  curiosity!  Wildly  he  re- 
garded it  with  open  mouth  and  bulging 
eyes,  as  if  it  were  the  touchstone  of  eternal 
youth  and  beauty  from  the  Celestial  Realms. 


122  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

There  is  something  inexplicably  attrac- 
tive about  the  first  sight  of  virgin  gold. 
Moreover,  there  is  an  irresistability  about 
it  that  is  positively  compelling.  More  espe- 
cially is  this  true  when  viewed  in  large, 
bulky  lumps,  and  this  one  weighed  a  full 
pound. 

During  the  Klondike  rush  of  '98,  he  had 
read  in  the  Gopher  Hole  how  that  men 
had  gone  mad  at  sight  of  gold;  and  now 
here  it  was,  the  very  stuff!  And  Page  had 
scraped  it  up  in  handfulls !  Also,  he  knew, 
in  a  vague  way,  that  pure  gold  was  worth 
about  twenty  dollars  an  ounce  and  if  this 
lump  weighed  a  pound— and  there  was  no 
mistake  on  that  point— then,  "  sixteen  times 
twenty  bein'  three  hundred  and  twenty,  thet 
air  homely  hunk  o'  rubbish's  wurth  mor'n 
my  caow  and  hoss  put  together,  and  all  the 
herd's-grass  in  the  barn  to  boot,"  he  mathe- 
matized.  It  was  soft  and  leaden  and  he 
could  mark  it  easily  with  his  thumb  nail. 

"Jist  so  much  metal,"  he  said  positively, 
"a  part  of  the  earth's  composition  and 
clean  'nough  until  made  into  money  and 
stamped  by  the  government,  and  then  it's 
rank  pizen  and  cussed  forever  and  eternal." 
The  next  moment  it  had  gone  to  join  the 
rawhide  thong  in  the  bottom  of  the  old 
clock.  Seizing  his  hat  the  agitated  farmer 
bolted  out  of  doors  and  went  about  his 
neglected  duties. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  123 

But  Leland  Tannerhill  had  little  appetite 
for  work.  His  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  and 
he  found  himself  going  hurridly  about  the 
farm  from  one  thing  to  another,  commenc- 
ing a  dozen  jobs  and  completing  none.  Fi- 
nally, he  gave  it  up  and  returned  to  the 
house. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  reasoned,  "I'm  all  up- 
sot,  and  my  nerves  has  clean  got  the  better 
o'  me.  If  suthin'  ain't  done  I'll  be  out  of 
my  head  and  over  the  bay  afore  Jason  gits 
here."  Half  an  hour  later  saw  him  on  the 
road  to  Ashworth,  holding  in  on  as  hand- 
some a  four-year-old  as  ever  pawed  tan- 
bark. 

Leland  was  no  sport.  Neither  was  he 
vain;  but  if  ever  child  loved  red  candy,  he 
loved  to  sit  behind  a  good  horse  and  he 
was  never  known  to  be  without  one  of  the 
best.  He  loved  fine  animals  for  the  pure 
love  of  them;  and,  as  he  often  said,  "It 
costs  no  more  to  feed  a  good  horse  than  a 
scrub,  so  why  should  a  man  be  satisfied  with 
slabs  when  there's  plenty  of  good  clean 
timber?" 

At  The  Bridge  he  halted  long  enough  to 
read  a  notice  a  fellow  with  a  red  button  on 
his  coat  was  tacking  up  on  Nate  Whitten's 
horse  shed,  then  went  sailing  around  Lit- 
tle Squam  and  past  the  Qusump  Mills, 
Black  Raven  scarcely  touching  the  ground, 
his  glossy  black  coat  flaked  with  foam.  Once 


124  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

in  the  village,  he  drove  straight  to  the 
Holiness  Tavern,  the  only  hostelry  in  the 
place,  and  was  met  at  the  door  by  "Landy" 
Cotton  the  genial  'and  prosperous  pro- 
prietor. He  threw  the  reins  over  the  dash- 
J3oard,  and  in  stepping  from  the  buggy  was 
jerked  off  his  feet  by  the  fidgeting  colt  who 
had  taken  fright  at  Rec  Cotton's  sput- 
tering auto.  Leland  was  unhurt,  however, 
and  the  frightened  animal  was  soon  quieted 
by  Carl  Huckins,  after  Charlie  the  parrot 
had  sung  out  "Whoa,"  from  his  cage  under 
the  porch. 

Leland  little  dreamed  of  what  his  im- 
promptu visit  to  Ashworth  that  sunny  Sep- 
tember afternoon  portended.  It  was  des- 
tined to  mark  an  epoch  in  his  lonely  life, 
an  epoch  of  unfoldment  from  the  empty 
husks  of  his  saharial  isolation  to  the  oasian 
dream  of  human  brotherhood,  only  to  be 
dashed  to  destruction  at  the  very  moment 
when  life  would  seem  worth  the  living! 
Had  he  possessed  more  adequate  means  of 
social  and  intellectual  intercourse,  the 
events  that  were  staged  for  the  near  future 
must  have  been  an  open  book  to  him  and 
the  disaster  averted.  As  it  was,  he  had 
never  seen  a  Socialist  paper.  The  pity  of 
it!  More  the  pity— aye,  the  shame  of  it- 
he  had  never  met  a  Socialist,  and  none  of 
the  comrades  had  ever  called  on  him!  He 
had  never  heard  the  blessed  message  of 
Socialism's  grand  mission  of  human  justice 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  125 

explained.  He  had  been  shunned  and  left 
alone  in  his  ignorance  and  sorrows  to  nurse 
and  nourish  them,  pining  away  the  empty 
years  without  hope,  and  with  only  his  in- 
herited prejudices,  superstitions  and  fears, 
while  those  who  might  have  saved  him  and 
added  his  honest  support  to  their  ranks, 
had  not  yet  learned  the  wisdom  of  classified 
propaganda.  When  finally  the  truth  broke 
through  to  him,  it  came  with  a  suddenness 
that  blinded  him  and  plunged  him  head- 
long on  to  the  reef  of  self-abnegation. 

As  he  fell  from  his  carriage  he  did  not 
notice  the  skulking  hulk  of  the  rat-eyed 
lawyer  Jibbs  in  company  with  the  editor 
of  the  Aberrant,  as  they  reeled  around 
the  corner  from  an  alley  dive  in  the  rear  of 
the  house.  Had  he  known  what  devilish 
doings  the  rum-soaked  maggots  of  their 
degenerate  brains  were  scheming  for  the 
coming  night,  Leland  Tannerhill  might  well 
have  hesitated  ere  he  accepted  Cotton's  in- 
vitation to  remain  over  for  the  lecture. 

"I  don't  know  what  benefit  it's  goin'  to 
be  to  me  if  I  do  stay  and  hear  the  lies 
them  politicians  tell.  I  hern  'em  for  forty 
year,  and  a  body  can  tell  aforehand  jist 
what  they  are  comin'  at."  He  had  replied 
to  Cotton's  coaxing. 

"What  do  you  know  about  Socialism, 
anyway?"  bluntly  blurted  out  a  member  of 
the  local  committee  on  arrangements. 

"Wai,  I  hain't  heard  much  about  it," 


126  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

truthfully  apologized  the  other,  "but  if 
what  the  papers  says  is  true,  I  guess  I've 
hearn  about  all  I  care  to  of  them  air  crit- 
ters thet  wants  to  get  'lected  ter  office,  no 
marter  which  party  they  belong  to.  They're 
all  alike,  purty  much,  same's  the  French- 
man's kittens." 

"How's  that?" 

"  'You  put  it  all  in  ze  bag,  you  shake 
him  all  up,  ze  first  one  come  it  out,  all  36 
rest  jes  ze  same.'  ''  At  this  point  Ross  San- 
born  and  Dr.  Sweeney  came  into  the  office, 
and  in  reply  to  a  suggestion  from  Cotton 
that  possibly  this  party— the  Socialist  party 
—might  be  different,  Leland  ranted  on,  to 
the  effect  that,  once  elected,  they  have  no 
further  use  for  working  people  until  elec- 
tion day  rolls  around  again,  and  added, 
hotly:  "I  tell  ye  it  ain't  no  use  talkin', 
them  air  rich  bucks  has  got  everything  fit 
ter  own,  and  a  poor  man  is  friz  out  these 
days.  Friz  out,  I  say.  And  the  dimmer- 
crats  and  the  republicans,  and  the  pro'bi- 
tionists,  Socialists  and  what  all,  are  six  o' 
one  and  half  a  dozen  o'  tother.  The  whole 
tormented  parcel  on  'em  is  rottern'n  To- 
phet!  The  country  is  gone  clean  ter  the 
dogs  and  they  ain't  no  hope  for  nobody  thet 
has  to  work  for  a  livin'.  There'll  be  an- 
other war,  soon,  and  it'll  be  right  ter  hum 
here  I'm  af eared.  God  pity  them  air  pus- 
guts  thet  corners  all  the  grain  and  cotton 
and  sich  thet  we  have  to  live  on,  when  the 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  127 

honest  folks  thet  digs  it  all  out  o'  the  sile 
gets  their  eyes  open  to  the  mischief.  I,  fer 
one,  will  never  shoulder  a  gun,  'less  they 
come  where  I  be;  but,  then,  I'm  one  of 
them  fools  thet  ain't  in  favor  of  spillin' 
human  blood,  ye  see." 

"My  dear  sir,  you're  a  Socialist  and 
don't  know  it!  Come  up  to  the  meeting 
tonight,  and  if  I  fail  to  convince  you  of  the 
fact,  I  promise  you  I  will  leave  the  lec- 
ture field  and  start  a  popcorn  stand  or  open 
a  Chinese  laundry  on  a  desert  isle,"  put  in 
a  tall,  fine-looking  stranger  with  a  bronzed 
skin  and  wearing  a  wide-brimmed  Stetson. 
"Mr.  Tannerhill,  shake  hands  with  Mr. 
Stanley  Lark,  of  Texas.  This  is  the  gen- 
tleman who  speaks  tonight  in  the  Town 
Hall.  Pardon  me  for  neglecting  to  make 
you  acquainted,  and  now  you  will  excuse 
me,  for  I  have  to  meet  the  train  from 
Boston."  Thus  volunteered  the  affable  host 
by  way  of  rescuing  the  situation. 

"So  you're  from  Texas,  be  ye,  one  o' 
them  wild  and  wooly  Westerners?  Well  I 
swaw!  Say,  you  don't  look  'ziff  you  had 
any  horns  growin'  out  of  your  head,  and 
I  hope  I  hain  't  'fended  nobody  for  I  meant 
well  enough,  and  jist  to  show  you,  my 
friend,  thet  we  ain't  a  lot  o'  barbarians 
here  in  the  weakkneed  East,  come  with  me 
for  a  sort  drive  this  afternoon,"  invited 
the  hermit  of  Tannerhill  Hill.  "I've  got  to 
go  hum,"  he  resumed,  "and  put  up  the 


128  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

caow  and  milk  afore  thet  spoutin'  o'  yourn 
begins,  for  I  want  you  to  understand  thet 
1  have  got  the  best  caow  in  Carroll  county, 
and  she  hain't  laid  out  a  night  since  I 
owned  her.  If  you're  from  Texas,  you  know 
enough  to  know  thet  it  spiles  'em  and  dries 
'em  up  to  go  without  bein'  milked."  And 
without  giving  his  new-found  friend  time  to 
either  accept  or  protest,  he  called  to  Ree 
Cotton:  "Here,  Bee,  harness  up  the  Raven 
and  fetch  him  around.  I'm  going  to  give 
this  'ere  long-horn  a  balloon  full  of  good 
old  New  Hampshire  air  thet  ain't  mixed 
all  up  with  soft  coal  smoke  and  sewer-gas." 

Ordinarily  Leland  was  a  man  of  reticence 
and  solemnity;  but,  somehow,  he  seemed  to 
warm  up  to  this  sweet-toned  son  of  the 
plains,  with  his  thrilling  handshake  and 
his  wholesome,  genuine  smile. 

Five  minutes  later  they  were  fairly  flying 
along  toward  Raven  Roost  mansion  at  a 
three-minute  clip,  the  big  Texan  truly  ad- 
miring the  clean-limbed  black  stallion  reel- 
ing off  the  miles  through  the  changing  scen- 
ery of  the  mountain  road.  Leland,  com- 
panion-hungry and  therefore  susceptible, 
readily  unbosomed  to  him  the  pain  of  all 
his  sad  story;  and  ere  the  great  gate  at  the 
foot  of  the  lane  swung  open  to  admit  them 
to  the  Raven  Roost  mansion,  the  two 
big-hearted  boys-grown-up  had  become  firm 
friends,  aye,  comrades;  in  a  friendship  and 
comradeship  such  as  Leland  had  not  known 
since  the  days  of  Erma  and  Jason. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  129 

Stanley  Lark  has  a  way  of  walking  right 
up  to  the  door  and  into  the  hearts  of  men ; 
and  when  those  two  big  children  of  God's 
perfounaed  acres  started  for  the  lower  field 
to  visit  the  potato  patch,  they  were  keeping 
step  side  by  side,  Stanley's  long  arm  across 
Leland's  shoulder— an  irresistible  demon- 
stration of  the  great  love  and  comradeship 
that  dwells  in  the  hearts  of  god-men  such  as 
these,  who  live  above  the  fog,  where  the 
soul-habitations  of  real  humanity  welcomes 
man  above  the  dollar. 

They  looked  over  the  farm,  looked  at  the 
pigs,  at  the  chickens  and  the  flowers,  and 
after  cooling  their  lips  from  a  spilling 
oaken  bucket  at  the  old  well,  Leland  opened 
the  shutters  and  they  entered  the  front 
room. 

Over  the  organ  in  the  west  corner  of 
the  spacious  parlor  with  its  old-fashioned 
fireplace  and  antique  furnishings,  hung  a 
large  crayon  portrait.  In  front  of  this  the 
visitor  paused,  looked  inquiringly  at  his 
host,  then  turned  without  speaking  and 
gazed  at  it  long  and  silently. 

"Thet's  Her,  there  was  only  two  on  us, 
and  it  seems  she  had  to  go.  I  s'pose  it  was 
God's  will,  and  I  hadn't  ought  to  complain; 
but  some  way  I  hain't  never  been  quite 
able  ter  f'give  the  old  folks  for  the  part 
they  played  in  her  takin'  off.  Mother  was 
all  sot  on  her  havin'  thet  white-livered 
young  buzzard  of  old  'Muskrat'  Perry's. 
Said  he'd  make  a  good  'catch!'  Mebbe  he 


130  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

would,  fur's  his  devilish  gold  went,  but 
ruther'n  ter  see  poor  Sis  have  ter  have 
him  ter  put  up  with,  and  ter  be  motherin' 
children  by  sich  vermin  as  he,  I'd  sooner 
she'd  be  dead,  if  I'm  punished  ferever  in 
Hell-fire  and  brimstone  fer  sayin'  it!" 

The  other  made  no  sign  that  he  had 
heard,  vouchsafing  no  reply,  and  the  be- 
reaved brother  continued:  "Thet's  her 
organ.  Jason  worked  in  Featherick  and 
Berth's  mill  at  Ashworth  fer  a  dollar  and 
ten  cents  a  day  and  bought  it  and  give  it 
to  her  'fore  they  was  married  on  the  sly. 
She  took  it  wonderful,  and  larnt  in  no  time 
so  she  could  play  like  she  was  gifted.  And 
then  they  turned  agin  Jason  and  it  killed 
her.  Oh!  Erin,  poor  Erm!" 

Atremble  and  weeping,  the  last  of  the 
Tannerhills  turned  and  looked  out  over  the 
valley  to  a  little  hill  where  the  white  stones 
glistened  in  the  sunlight  a  mile  away.  Up 
to  this  point  the  entranced  visitor  had  not 
spoken;  but  here,  and  without  taking  his 
eyes  from  the  lovely  face  that  smiled  down 
at  him  from  the  canvas  on  the  wall,  he  ex- 
claimed aesthetically:  "My  God!  My  God! 
what  a  beautiful  woman,  what  a  beautiful 
woman!  And  you  tell  me  her  parents  sep- 
arated her  from  her  natural  mate!  No 
wonder  it  killed  her.  She  was  too  sensuous 
-too  much  alive."  And  under  his  breath 
he  said  more  that  his  host  did  not  hear ! 

'Yes,  she  sartin  was  above  the  average 
in  good  looks.  So  was  he ;  and  to  see  them 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  131 

air  two  together  was  worth  a  body's  while, 
knowin'  as  how  they  thought  so  much  of 
one  another  and  seemed  so  well  in  every 
way  and  strong/' 

"It  is  a  pity!  A  sad  and  crying  pity!" 
solemnly  declared  the  big  Texan.  Then 
seated  himself  at  the  organ  and  laid  hands 
on  the  tarnished  ivory  keys. 

Leland  drew  up  a  chair  and  was  silent. 

Softly  at  first,  then  in  drowning  billows 
the  mellow  music  rose  and  fell,  rolled  and 
trilled  and  subsided,  rose  and  rolled  again 
to  the  magic  touch  of  the  inspired  player, 
as  out  from  his  great  soul  in  mighty  re- 
quiem poured  a  flood-tide  of  Mozartian 
sorrows— sorrows,  tears,  and  joys. 

From  the  mad  horrors  of  a  midnight 
dream  of  the  martyred  Poe,  rolled  back 
the  black  thunder-clouds  of  misery  to  the 
happy  laughter  of  little  children  waking 
to  the  gladsome  reveille  in  man's  Pierian 
Dawn.  Next  an  opera  from  Wagner.  Then 
an  Italian  serenade.  Now  a  sweet  baby 
lullaby.  Finally,  far  out  of  the  long  for- 
gotten lyric-lore  of  the  3resterday  of  youth, 
he  called  up  the  tender  notes  of  an  old  love 
tune.  On,  and  on,  over  the  keys  the 
trained  fingers  flew,  mingling  all  the 
pent-up  emotions  of  the  human  heart  with 
the  Eolian  strains  of  the  Astrial  Realm,  as 
if  held  to  the  sweet  cadence  by  Euterpe's 
seraph  hand.  Leland,  his  hoary  head  bowed 
upon  his  hands,  the  sunlight  streaming  in 
golden  flood  down  upon  his  snow-white 


132  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

locks,  moaned  and  sobbed  as  the  silvery 
notes  poured  a  torrent  of  medleyed  woe  and 
bliss,  sorrow  and  joy,  hope  and  promise, 
into  the  empty  gulf  of  his  silent  past.  And 
when  at  last  he  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
he  fell  on  his  knees  and  passionately  im- 
portuned High  Heaven  in  silent  prayer! 

The  music  stopped.  Both  men  bowed 
heads  in  silence.  Then  laying  a  hand  on 
the  troubled  brow,  the  Texan  said :  "Come ! 
Come,  Comrade!  We  have  lived  long 
enough  in  the  dead,  and  dusty  past.  Your 
dear  sister  is  dead— was  murdered.  She 
was  murdered,  I  say!  Murdered  in  cold 
Wood!  but  not  by  her  people  as  you  think 
I  am  charging.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it 
later.  Come,  I  know  it  all!  Listen!  I  am 
going  to  sing  you  a  song." 

With  a  shivering  shock  the  old  organ 
burst  into  life  anew.  Came  then  the  voice 
of  the  singer,  a  clear  baritone,  sonorous 
with  cultured  excellence  and  full  of  yearn- 
ing and  appeal.  He  sang  a  song  of  toil,  of 
the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  weary  feet. 
" March  on!  March  on!"  Who  has  not 
heard  it?  Who  has  not  felt  the  hot 
blood  surge  and  rage  in  fiery  sympathy 
at  the  sound  of  it?  The  singer  was  now 
at  the  zenith  of  his  physical  and  musical 
efficiency.  The  old  organ  rocked  and 
pitched  to  the  terrific  strength  of  the 
storming  player,  as  he  swayed  and  reeled 
under  the  scorching  fury  of  his  own  vol- 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  133 

canic  will.  The  purple  veins  stood  out  on 
his  neck  and  forehead  like  huge  welts,  as 
the  impassioned  harmony  pleaded  for  the 
rights  of  men  in  Labor's  righteous  cause. 
It  seemed  that  all  the  world-old  wrongs  of 
Mammon's  riot  rule  were  centered  in  that 
grand  rebellion. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  slave  crying  up 
from  the  abyss  of  fettered  centuries  for  jus- 
tice that  had  never  come!  It  was  the 
weeping  wail  of  the  widowed  wife  and  the 
orphaned  child,  mingled  with  the  brutal 
din  of  the  bloody  battlefield.  It  was  the 
reverberating  voice  of  defiance  from  the 
torture-chamber  and  the  burning  stake.  It 
was  the  bitter  story  of  the  empty  sleeve  and 
the  empty  lives  of  the  myriads  of  disin- 
herited poor.  And  finally,  it  was  the  blessed 
promise,  coupled  with  the  heroic  challenge 
of  the  workers  of  the  world;  and  at  the 
words:  " Liberty  or  death!"  Leland  Tan- 
nerhill  leaped  to  his  feet,  eyes  aflame,  his 
white  hair  shaking  to  the  tremble  of  his 
massive  head!  The  man  was  wild— beside 
himself  with  emotion!  In  fact,  he  was, 
like  the  musician  and  the  music,  clearly 
mad!  Mad  and  transported  back  over  the 
gruesome  path  of  man's  inhumanity  to  his 
fellow-man.  Mad  with  a  madness  born  of 
the  wrongs  of  the  tyrant  reign  of  graft  and 
gold  and  greed !  Mad  with  the  madness  for 
love,  for  life,  and  for  home !  Mad  with  the 
desert-thirst  of  long  hungry  years  of  loneli- 


134  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

ness  and  burning  drouth !  And  hysterically, 
joyously  mad,  because  of  the  letters  of 
Jason,  and  for  his  new  found  friend  with 
his  great  optimism  and  his  irrefutable 
philosophy  of  life. 

The  music  and  the  singer  ceased  as  ab- 
ruptly as  if  suddenly  shot  out  of  the  world. 
The  Texan  rose  to  his  feet,  and  seizing  the 
agitated  mountaineer  affectionately  by  the 
arm  strode  with  him  out  of  the  room. 

" Don't!  Don't,  Comrade!"  he  said.  "You 
must  not.  be  unnerved.  If  you  knew  what 
I  know,  you  would  be  happier,  even  in  the 
midst  of  your  sorrows,  than  those  vampire 
capitalists  down  there  on  that  smooth  water 
in  their  handsome  yachts,  and  with  their 
private  ownership  in  other  men's  lives. 
There  is  a  great  future  for  us.  I  will  tell  you 
all  about  it  tonight  when  I  tell  it  to  those 
poor  devils  who  are  grinding  out  their  lives 
in  the  woolen  and  cotton  slave  pens  of  Ash- 
worth." 

Leland  gazed  down  at  the  great  sheen  of 
silvery  water,  speckled  with  its  emerald 
islands  and  tiny  crafts.  "Tell  me— Mr.— 
Comrade  Lark,  what  thet  was  you  sung  ter 
me?  O  Lord,  O  Lord!  I  never  heard  the 
like,  and  it  jist  sort  o'  overcome  me,  en- 
tire." 

"  'The  Marseillaise.'  France's  national 
hymn,  and  the  international  battle-song  of 
Labor.  It  is  very  popular  with  the  Social- 
ists, and  is  pretty  generally  conceded  by 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  135 

everybody  to  be  the  most  inspiring  piece  of 
music  ever  written/' 

"Socialists  is  purty  much  all  poor  folks, 
ain't  they,  Texas'?"  (Leland  was  himself 
again.)  The  Texan  grinned,  but  not  at 
the  interrogation,  and  his  host  continued: 
"I've  hearn  as  much,  and  if  they  be,  I'm 
for  'em  more  o'r  less  anyway.  Give  me  my 
kick  at  the  top  dog  every  time,  'specially 
when  he's  big  agin  as  the  one  down.  And 
now  you  come  with  me,  I've  suthin  to 
show  you."  Whereupon  he  led  the  way 
into  the  kitchen  and  straight  to  the  old 
clock.  Opening  the  door  at  the  bottom,  he 
ran  his  arm  down,  clawed  around  a  mo- 
ment, and  brought  out  the  nugget  and  flung 
it  down  heavily  on  the  table.  The  Texan 
seized  it,  looked  it  over  sharply  and  ex- 
claimed: "Gold!" 

"There  ye  go,  'gold!'  thet's  the  name 
on't,  and  where  thet  come  frum  they  say 
a  body  can  scrape  it  up  in  gobs.  Read  thet 
air  letter."  Here  he  handed  the  other  Ben 
Page's  letter  from  Alaska,  and  when  he 
had  read  it  he  sat  back  in  his  chair  and 
meditated  thoughtfully. 

"What  will  you  do,  Comrade?"  he  said 
finally.  "I  ought  ter  write,  I  s'pose,  and 
say  suthin  ^bout  gettin'  thet  stuff  from 
Page,  and  tell  him  what  he  ought  ter  do 
with  the  mine;  but  I  hate  ter  undertake  it, 
I'm  a  poor  hand  at  penmanship,  and  a  let- 
ter I  hain't  hed  ter  arnswer  fer  no  knowin' 


136  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

when.  Don't  you  want  to  do  the  job  for 
me,  bein's  how  you're  right  here,  and  know 
all  the  circumstances  and  probably  more 
used  ter  thet  sort  o'  thing  than  I  be?" 

Stanley  replied  that  he  would  be  very 
glad  to  be  of  service  in  the  matter,  and  after 
a  few  suggestions  from  Leland  proceeded 
to  write  the  following  letter: 

"Raven  Roost  R.  F.  D.  No.  2, 
"Holiness,  N.  H.,  Sept.  10,  1910. 
"Mr  Benjamin  Page, 

"Broken  Bone  Mine, 

"High  Heath,  Alaska. 
"Dear  Sir:— 

"The  two  packages  from  you  and  my  old 
friend,  Jason,  Sands,  came  safely  to  hand, 
and  please  accept  my  thanks  for  your 
prompt  action  and  deep  interest,  as  mani- 
fested, and  for  your  devotion  to  Jason  and 
his  interests. 

"Jason  has  not  yet  reached  this  place. 
I  shall  look  for  him  from  how  on  with 
great  anxiety,  but  have  no  doubt  that  ere 
this  reaches  you  he  will  have  arrived  safely 
home;  in  which  event  you  shall  be  notified 
immediately. 

"As  to  the  mine,  I  would  say,  hold  on  to 
it  until  further  communications  from  here, 
providing  you  can  endure  the  hardship; 
but  in  case  of  your  inability  to  do  this,  I 
would  suggest  that  you  make  an  effort  to 
realize  on  it  as  handsomely  as  possible, 
and  then  come  right  here,  where  you  will, 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  137 

in  all  probability  find  Jason  awaiting  you. 

"However,  use  your  own  judgment  in  the 
matter,  as  I  have  every  confidence  that, 
being  on  the  ground,  such  judgment  would 
be  more  sane  and  efficient  than  any  I  could 
possibly  render  from  this  point. 

"Trusting  all  will  come  out  right  in  the 
end,  and  with  best  wishes,  I  remain, 
"Yours  very  truly, 

"LELAND  B.  TANNERHILL." 

"He'll  get  thet  about  next  year  at  this 
time,  if  the  letter  don't  git  wore  out  afore 
it  gits  to  him,  and  if  he  ain't  eat  up  by 
wolves  fust,"  said  Leland,  "and  now  if 
you'll  come  and  hold  the  light  while  I  skim 
a  couple  o'  pans  of  milk  fer  the  pigs,  I'll 
show  you  milk  thet  is  milk,  the  kind  thet' 
grows  on  a  real  caow  and  not  related  ter 
the  brand  they  pump  out  o'  the  Mississippi 
sewer,  'cording  ter  the  tell  of  them  thet's 
been  there."  Here  Leland  led  the  way  to 
a  big,  airy  cellar,  cool  and  clean. 

In  one  corner,  all  bricked  off  and  ce- 
mented, with  long  rows  of  shelves  filled 
with  old-fashioned  earthen  pans,  was  the 
milk-room.  "Them  four  on  the  top  shelf 
was  sot  this  mornin',  and  these  'ere  six 
b'low  is  last  night's  milk;  we  won't  tech 
any  o'  that  air,  but  these  'ere  bottom  ones 
is  thirty-six  hours  old  comin'  six  o'clock 
tonight,  and  if  it  ain't  sour— (trying  it  on 
his  finger)  and  it  ain't,  I'll  show  you  suthin 
thet,  if  you  Texas  folks  can  beat  it,  111  sell 


138  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

out  and  buy  a  jint  o'  thet  Pan-handle  alki- 
liar  country  o'  yourn,  and  go  to  raisin'  post 
holes  and  revolution  seeds  along  with  the 
rest  o'  you  red-flaggers. "  Whereupon  he 
ran  a  case-knife  around  the  edge  of  the 
pan  freeing  the  cream  from  it,  flopped  the 
edges  into  the  middle  then  lifted  the  whole 
mass  of  thick,  yellow  stuff  on  the  case- 
knife  and  carried  it  across  the  room  to  a 
large-mouthed  stone  jar  and  dropped  it  in. 

" How's  thet,  Texas?"  he  challenged, 
"and  jist  ter  show  thet  thet  air  ain't  nothin' 
extra,  what  d'yer  think  er  this  'ere?"  As 
he  spoke  he  lifted  a  pan  of  the  "last 
night's"  setting  from  the  shelf,  placed  it 
on  the  cellar  bottom,  and  taking  an  egg 
from  the  basket  under  the  butter  table,  held 
it  to  the  full  height  of  his  long  reach  above 
his  head  and  let  it  fall,  spat,  into  the 
middle  of  the  pan.  It  simply  made  a  dent, 
but  did  not  go  through  the  cream.  Taking 
another  pan  from  the  bottom  row,  he  ran 
the  knife  around  the  edge,  threw  down  the 
knife,  and  deliberately  seizing  it  with  thumb 
and  fingers  in  the  center,  lifted  the  half- 
inch  of  leathery  matter  intact  from  the 
blue  milk  underneath  and  deposited  it  with 
the  first  in  the  stone  jar. 

"The  only  thing  I  have  to  say,  is,  that 
I'd  like  to  own  the  cow  that  gave  that 
milk,"  decisively  and  emphatically  declared 
his  enthusiastic  visitor,  "and  she  is  worth 
five  hundred  dollars  with  the  wink  of  an 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  139 

eye,  or  I'm  a  maverick.  Where  did  you 
get  such  a  critter,  Comrade,  and  what  breed 
is  she?" 

"Gutter  off  old  Sam  Massey  thet  lived 
yender  there  on  the  Langdon  place  by  thet 
big  wilier  tree,"  replied  the  owner,  as  they 
emerged  from  the  rollway  with  the  blue 
milk  for  the  pigs.  "She's  one  o'  two  twins 
he  rize  from  a  Black  Dutch  heifer  calf, 
gi'n  him,  so  he  used  to  tell,  by  a  rich  woman 
in  Boston  when  he  wras  in  the  oyster  bus- 
iness there.  Imported  from  Germany,  so 
she  told  him,  and  the  twins  was  half  Black 
Dutch  and  half  Jersey.  Sam  was  alms  a 
great  hand  ter  brag  about  what  little  he 
hed,  and  one  night  I  happened  in  there 
when  he  was  duin'  the  chores,  and  he 
showed  me  the  tricks  I  jist  showed  you,  and 
run  on  about  the  breed  until  I  offered  ter 
trade  him  old  'Charlie'— thet  was  a  hoss  I 
owned  at  thet  time— and  a  bran  new  side- 
hill  plow  ter  boot.  He  took  me  up,  and  1 
got  the  caow.  She'll  be  ten  year  old  come 
another  spring,  if  he  knowed  what  he  was 
talkin'  about  and  didn't  lie.  And  she'll 
stay  with  me  a  while  longer  yit,  and  I  guess 
you  won't  blame  me  fer  wantin'  ter  hang 
on  ter  her,  when  you  see  the  mess  she  gives 
when  we  milk  her  tonight." 

Nor  did  the  Texan  blame  him  for  his 
fancy  of  the  fine  old  "Bess,"  when,  at  milk- 
ing time,  he  sat  on  a  stone  in  the  barn- 
yard, and  saw  Leland  draw  a  brimming  ten- 


140  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

quart  pail  of  milk  from  her.  And  when, 
ten  minutes  later,  they  were  in  the  milk- 
room,  each  drinking  a  full  quart  of  the 
pure  rich  lactage  food,  he  marveled  no  more 
at  the  rugged  healthy  glow  of  his  big  com- 
panion. 

"I  allus  set  here  and  drink  my  drink  o' 
milk,  warm  from  the  caow,"  he  explained, 
"and  half  the  time  thet's  all  I  eat  fer  a 
meal.  My  'pinion  is  folks  eats  tue  much 
stuff  thet  ain't  good  fer  'em,  'specially  meat 
and  sich  like.  And  in  the  cities  I've  hear'n 
they  'dulterate  the  milk  and  pizen  it  ter 
keep  it  from  sourin';  is  thet  so,  Comrade 
Lark?"  Stanley  replies  that  the  charge 
was  far  from  being  a  slander,  and  added: 
"That  gives  me  an  idea.  Comrade  Tanner- 
hill,  and  I  propose  to  make  a  point  on  that 
city  milk  question  in  the  course  of  my  re- 
mark tonight.  Millions  of  babies  are  either 
poisoned  with  improper  foods,  or  else  die 
from  starvation  for  lack  of  proper  and  ade- 
quate nourishment  every  year  in  the  big 
cities  of  this  country,  and  in  the  face  of 
ample  and  numerous  so-called  pure  food 
laws." 

"Why  don't  they  take  'em  to  the  country 
where  there's  plenty  of- 

"Pure  milk,  pure  air,  pure  water,  and 
peace  and  quite  and  health?"  interrupted 
the  Texan.  The  other  looked  mystified,  and 
Lark  continued:  "I'll  tell  you  why  a  poor 
widow  with  several  small  children,  working 


THE  TORCH  OP  REASON.  141 

for  three  dollars  a  week  in  a  garret  sweat- 
shop cannot  do  it.  I  will  tell  you  why  the 
family  whose  head  is  blistering  his  naked 
pelt  over  molten  metal  in  the  steel  mills 
for  nine  dollars  a  week,  paying  gas  and 
water  privileges  five  times  in  excess  of  their 
real  value,  paying  a  fat  landlord  two  rents 
for  half  a  shelter  unfit  to  kennel  a  decent 
dog  in,  paying  the  ever-growing  high  prices 
for  food— adulterated  at  that— and  coal, 
and  shoddy  clothing  cannot  do  it.  I  will 
tell  you  why  the  young  couple  with  a  fairly 
decent  salary— 

' '  Stop,  stop !  I  've  hear  'n  enough ! ' '  inter- 
rupted the  other,  "I  was  to  Boston  once, 
a  good  many  years  ago,  and  things  looked 
bad  enough  to  me  then.  I  guess  they're 
wus  now.  God  help  'em.  I  tell  ye  they're 
lost!  All  I  can  think  on  is  another  rebel- 
lion, or  suthin'  but  I  hope  I'll  be  gone  afore 
it  gets  here.  It's  beyend  me,  I  swaw!" 

"I  don't  guess  it  will  be  merely  a  rebel- 
lion, Comrade,  it  will  be  a  revolution," 
sweetly  corrected  the  Texas  giant,  his  hand 
on  the  other's  shoulder,  and  with  eyes  ablur 
with  emotion.  "Not  a  rebellion,  but  a 
Revolution!  A  peaceful,  and  bloodless  Rev- 
olution/' 

"I  tell  ye  it's  beyend  me;  but  if  you  fel- 
lers has  got  the  remedy  I'll  jine  hands 
with  ye  and  do  my  part,  and  thet's  all  the 
best  on  us  can  promise."  The  discussion 
thus  ended,  and  as  the  hour  for  supper 


142  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

was  approaching,  with  eight  miles  to  drive 
back  to  town  to  hear  his  first  Socialist  lec- 
ture, Leland  hitched  up  Black  Kaven,  and 
with  the  golden  purple  glory  of  the  autumn 
verdure  painted  on  the  forest  hillsides,  a 
divine  splendor  in  the  velvet  twilight,  the 
two  men  rode  together  in  silent  admiration 
and  the  drive  was  all  too  short. 

Upon  entering  the  buggy  the  Yankee 
passed  the  reins  over  to  his  Southern  friend, 
and  when  at  the  end  of  thirty  minutes' 
driving  they  were  seated  in  the  dining  room 
of  the  Holiness  Tavern,  the  plainsman  said : 
"That  colt  of  yours  has  a  future,  Comrade, 
if  you  want  to  get  it  out  of  him.  He's 
fast,  brainy,  and  easy  on  the  bit.  Has  he  a 
record  ?" 

"You  bet  he  has,  and  a  good  record  at 
thet.  He's  done  all  my  plowin'  and  hauled 
all  the  hay,  and  done  the  other  farm  work 
since  he  was  two  yearold.  Hain't  never 
been  hurt  in  the  mouth,  and  was  never 
struck  a  blow.  He  don't  know  a  whip  from 
a  clothesline.  Thet's  the  way  he's  been 
brought  up.  Yes,  he's  blooded,  though,  a 
son  of  old  General  Lion,  and  Scott  Rogers 
says  he'd  make  a  trotter." 

"He  is  certainly  a  fine  animal,  and  adver- 
tises his  early  training  in  his  every  move- 
ment. Early  training,  you  know,  is  every- 
thing with  animals,  as  with  men,  Comrade 
Tannerhill.  The  love  of  things  that  are 
real  is  bred  on  the  farm,  mark  that.  I  am 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  143 

glad  that  I  met  you,  for  you  are  an  ideal- 
ist." 

As  the  hour  approached  for  the  lecture, 
the  hotel  office  began  to  fill  up  with  the 
town  boys  and  nearby  farmers.  Ed  Horri- 
gan  and  Babe  Merchant  started  a  hot  discus- 
sion over  baseball,  and  were  joined  imme- 
diately by  barber  Brooks  and  Fred  Brown. 
Leland  and  his  companion  seated  themselves 
at  a  small  table  and  commenced  a  game  of 
checkers,  the  interest  in  which  terminated 
the  baseball  question,  and  the  affable  Texan 
saw  to  it  that  there  were  no  dull  drags  for 
lack  of  good  story-telling.  When  the  hour 
arrived  for  the  doors  to  open  for  the  speech, 
they  all  marched  to  the  Town  Hall,  Rec 
Cotton  and  Will  Huckins  in  the  lead,  with 
Mina  Blake,  the  "hen"  man,  Harry  Porter 
and  Frank  Hughes  plying  questions  thick 
and  fast  to  the  Texan  as  they  walked  to- 
gether under  the  rising  autumn  moon. 
When  the  hall  was  reached  Leland  was  in- 
vited to  a  seat  by  the  side  of  the  speaker 
on  the  stage,  and  after  a  brief  introduction 
by  the  local  secretary,  Jennie  Drew,  the 
stranger  from  the  Southwest  walked  for- 
ward to  the  footlights  and  began  to  speak. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE  SON  or  JASON  SANDS. 

Stood  one  like  the  Roman  soldier 

With  ashes  in  his  hair ; 
Radiant — buoyant  the  other, 

"With  his  sun-kissed  locks  and  fair. 

'Twere  frost  and  the  summer  sunshine— 

The  vernal  and  the  sear; 
The  song  of  the  beryl  springtime — 

The  dirge  of  the  dying  year. 

The  Aurora  was  in  the  hands  of  robbers ! 
Aye,  worse  than  robbers;  they  were  des- 
perate men — yeggmen  were  they!  The 
mining  of  gold  was  not  their  -profession. 
Thev  were  disciples  of  the  philosophy  of 
death.  There  were  six  of  them,  the  six  who 
came  aboard  at  Fort  Yukon.  They  had 
planned  the  robbery  well,  timing  it  to  come 
off  at  dusk,  and  near  the  north  bank  in 
shallow  water.  Taking  advantage  of  their 
opportunity  when  all  hands  were  huddled 
aft  on  the  starboard  quarter,  and  while  the 
Socialists  were  vying  with  one  another  to 
the  delight  of  all,  they  had  slipped  forward, 
one-by-one,  to  consummate  their  diabolical 
plot. 

(144) 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  145 

Gold  they  had  come  for — the  gold  that 
was  shipped  aboard  at  the  Fort.  The  lives 
of  men  were  scant  consideration  and  not  to 
be  reckoned  in  save  as  a  menace.  They 
had  brought  "p^p,"  and  the  boat  was  to 
be  run  on  a  sandbar  and  blown  up  as  she 
struck.  This  would  cause  a  panic  and  add 
to  the  general  confusion,  and  the  killing 
would  be  easier  and  less  cold-blooded.  At 
least,  it  would  have  that  appearance. 

They  were  in  the  North  country  for  the 
same  purpose  that  other  men  were  there; 
for  the  same  purpose  that  Jason  Sands,  the 
Mexican,  Toy,  Jack  Philips,  and  the  rest 
were  there;  they  were  there  for  gold.  It 
was  an  individual,  free-for-all  scramble, 
without  order,  without  system,  without  or- 
ganization and  without  principle.  To  win 
meant  life,  and  the  luxuries  of  life;  but  to 
lose  meant  starvation,  frost  and  death.  In 
earlv  life  they  had  begun  the  competitive 
strife  in  earnest  and  with  honestv  of  pur- 
pose. Thev  had  failed.  They  had  been 
victims  of  the  dishonest,  and  now  they  re- 
solved to  become  the  victors. 

The  initial  opening  of  the  drama  of 
death,  was  the  killing  of  Capt.  Anderson 
in  the  wheel-house  and  the  placing  of  one 
of  the  gansf  at  the  helm.  This  was  accom- 
plished without  commotion,  as  was  the  cor- 
ralling of  the  crew  in  the  engine  room, 
where  they  were  held  at  pistol's  point  while 
the  old  tub  was  being  run  aground,  when, 


146  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

unarmed  as  they  were,  they  could  be  easily 
shot  in  the  general  mixup  of  the  wreck. 
Luck  favored  them,  it  would  seem,  up  to 
the  point  where  Toy  ran  forward  and  en- 
tered the  pilot-house  where  she  expected  to 
find  Captain  Anderson,  and  did — a  dead 
man! 

It  was  an  inopportune  moment.  The 
wires  had  been  strung  and  the  sack  of 
explosive  lowered  in  place  over  the  bow  by 
two  of  the  gang  when  the  job  was  bungled. 
The  man  at  the  battery  had  just  received 
orders  from  " Bluebeard,"  the  leader,  not 
to  open  the  current  until  she  struck,  unless 
in  case  of  discovery,  when  at  the  first  alarm 
he  was  to  " touch  her  off"  without  warning. 
Quick  as  the  agile  Indian  had  been  seized 
by  the  brute  in  the  pilot-house,  she  had 
been  quicker;  and  as  he  thrust  her  over  the 
rail  her  right  hand  flashed  out,  then  came 
the  scream  and  the  explosion.  The  two 
men  at  the  bow  were  blown  to  atoms,  Toy 
thrown  overboard,  and  the  robber  who  had 
thrown  her  overboard  had  sheathed  the 
slender  blade  of  her  poniard  in  his  cruel 
heart. 

With  the  killing  of  Capt.  Anderson,  this 
made  five  persons  dead,  and  only  three  of 
the  six  desperadoes  left  to  deal  with.  The 
nose  of  the  ship  was  on  the  bar,  everything 
was  confusion  aboard,  and  then  the  firing 
began ! 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  147 

When  the  passengers  fell  in  a  heap  from 
the  shock  of  the  explosion,  it  was  just  at  the 
parting  of  day  and  the  beginning  of  night. 
It  was  not  dark,  but  the  murk  of  approach- 
ing darkness  lowering  gloomily  over  the 
river,  palled  misshapen  shadows  through 
the  uneven  landscape,  Hke  the  prowling 
ghosts  of  graveyard  lore  that  nightmare 
through  our  dreams,  as  we  roam  again  with 
the  hairy  men  of  yesterday  in  the  mystic 
caverns  of  our  slumber  horror-lands. 

The  doctor  was  the  first  to  his  feet 
quickly  followed  by  Jack  Philips  in  a  mad 
rush  for  the  pilot-house  whence  had  come 
the  shriek  of  Toy,  when,  almost  instantly 
and  without  warning,  a  strange,  great  light 
came  over  the  land.  Far  to  the  northwest 
a  giant  pillar  of  white  fire  streamed 
straight  up  into  the  heavens,  then  at  a  point 
that  seemed  hundreds  of  miles  from  earth, 
shot  down  a  shaft  of  the  same  white  fire 
from  the  very  summit  on  an  angle  of  45 
degrees  to  the  earth.  It  was  a  marvelous 
sight  and  one  never  to  be  forgotten.  It 
was  so  instantaneous  and  unearthly  that  all 
on  board  were  blinded — temporarily— so 
white  with  daylight  had  everything  become. 
It  was  pure  daylight — no!  that  don't  ex- 
press it.  Whiter  than  daylight;  that's  it. 
It  was  whiter  than  the  whitest  thing  in  the 
world.  If  daylight  is  white  light,  this  light 
was  whiter  than  all  the  daylight  that  had 
ever  been  in  all  the  ages  of  the  world  rolled 


148  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

into  one  day.  Nothing  like  it  had  ever 
been;  and  it  came  and  rested  on  the  wreck 
in  the  river  and  the  whole  country  for  miles 
around  was  lighted  with  its  unearthly  bril- 
liancy. At  sight  of  it  there  was  a  lull  in 
the  carnival  of  destruction ;  but  it  was  only 
for  a  moment,  and  then  the  slaughter  was 
resumed. 

The  three  pirates  still  living  unapprised 
of  the  fate  of  their  mates,  rushed  among 
the  unarmed  passengers  firing  off  their  pis- 
tols, spreading  death  and  terror  in  their 
wake  and  sparing  none ;  but  their  reign  was 
destined  to  be  of  short  duration.  With  the 
coming  of  the  new  strange  light  was  re- 
vealed the  secret  of  the  supposed  accident. 
The  truth  was  not  recognized  immeditely 
by  all,  but  Jason  Sands  knew.  And  when 
the  Mexican,  Spanto,  who  had  rushed  after 
his  young  bride  at  her  cry  of  distress  drew 
her  tiny  dagger  from  the  breast  of  the  vil- 
lain who  had  drowned  her,  he,  also,  knew. 
Jack  Philips  was  made  to  realize  it  a  mo- 
ment later  when  he  looked  down  the  barrel 
of  an  eighteen-inch  Colt.  It  was  Jason 
Sands  who  saved  his  life.  Jason  had  seen 
the  movement  and  interpreted  its  meaning 
in  the  eye  of  the  black-bearded  hercules 
just  as  the  smoking  revolver  left  the  level 
of  its  latest  victim's  heart.  That  was 
enough  for  Jason.  He  did  something. 
Though  with  only  one  leg  and  both  his 
crutches  lost  in  the  melee,  he  sprang  a  full 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  149 

six  feet  and  drove  his  huge  right  fist  half- 
way to  the  elbow  into  the  thick  chest  of  the 
bearded  devil  just  as  he  pulled  the  trigger. 
There  was  a  crunch  of  bones,  a  loud  report, 
and  then  a  splash  in  the  river  thirty  feet 
distant  on  the  port  quarter. 

Jason  fell  on  his  face  against  the  ship's 
rail  from  his  own  momentum,  but  was 
quickly  up  again.  Jack  Philips  was  stag- 
gering from  the  shot  that  plowed  a  furrow 
from  brow  to  crown  through  the  scalp  and 
just  grazing  the  skull.  He  was  drenched 
in  blood,  a  thin  stream  still  cataracting 
down  over  his  face,  he  presented  the  ap- 
pearance of  having  been  struck  between 
the  eyes  with  a  huge  cleaver.  On  the  deck 
lay  the  doctor,  face  downward.  The  two 
remaining  assassins,  their  guns  clubbed, 
were  maneuvering  to  brain  the  optimistic 
Jack,  when,  of  a  sudden,  his  whole  de- 
meanor changed.  There  was  a  flash  of  the 
arms,  the  two  robbers  dropped  their  guns 
and  crumpled  up  limp  with  eyes  and 
tongues  protruding  as  the  powerful  fingers 
of  Jack's  calloused  hands  sunk  deep  into 
their  throats.  The  fight  was  over.  When 
their  faces  purpled  he  let  go  of  them,  and 
they  clattered  down  on  the  deck  among  the 
victims  of  their  frightful  butchery.  This 
completed  the  last  act  in  the  unspeakable 
tragedy.  With  hands  clutching  at  his 
bloody  forehead,  his  face  blanched  with 
ashen  pallor,  the  big,  soft-hearted  boy-man 


150  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

who  had  obeyed  the  Great  Law  at  last  and 
fought  for  his  life,  pitched  forward  and 
fell  at  full  length  topmost  of  the  heap  of 
dead! 

Among  all  the  erstwhile  peaceful  com- 
pany but  one  remained  standing.  Jason,  it 
was,  and  he  felt  a  great  sickness  coming 
over  him.  He  was  weak  and  faint ;  for,  had 
he  not  killed  a  man?  He  had  hoped  never 
to  be  guilty  of  such  as  this.  That  he  had 
done  it  in  self-defense,  and  in  defense  of 
his  comrade's  life  were  no  apology.  "I 
have  killed  a  man,"  he  cried  aloud,  "and 
he  is  down  there  in  the  water  with  poor 
Toy."  Then  he  contemplated  the  bloody 
havoc  of  the  evening  with  thoughts  that 
may  not  be  told  of  human  tongue! 

The  blood  stood  in  jelly-like  pools  around 
the  dead.  The  deck  was  a  shambles,-— 
shambles  is  no  name  for  it.  It  was  a  satur- 
nalian  murder  f est !  But  the  radiant  angu- 
lar light  through  the  gathering  darkness 
persisted,  looking  down  in  a  soft,  silent 
flood  like  the  tail  of  a  comet  roosting  high 
up  on  a  column  of  pure  radium. 

There  was  a  movement  at  the  base  of  the 
pyre  of  mangled  humanity,  and  Jason 
leaped  to  the  spot  and  was  bending  over 
the  doctor,  when  a  great  hissing  noise  got 
in  his  ears — a  sound  like  escaping  steam. 
Before  he  could  turn  round  it  was  over- 
head, and  as  he  looked  his  eyes  met  the 
blinding  glare  of  a  winged  meteor,  huge 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  151 

and  white,  and  as  hot  as  it  was  white.  It 
stopped  immediately  above  the  wreck  and 
beat  its  bat-like  wings  against  the  air  like 
some  antediluvian  monster  poised  to  dive 
for  its  living  prey.  Then  the  white  light 
and  heat  went  out,  and  in  the  ray  of  the 
other  light  he  could  make  out  a  gigantic 
bird  of  metal.  There  it  hung,  flapping  its 
terrible  wings,  its  long,  slim  body  station- 
ary as  if  depended  by  an  invisible  cable 
from  above. 

At  this  point  a  powerful  voice  sang  out 
as  with  authority.  A  long,  door-like  plate 
on  the  underside  of  the  monster  which 
looked  like  the  chutes  coal  teams  carry 
opened,  and  a  man  in  black  tights  slid  down 
the  chute  and  into  the  river.  Then  the 
iron  bird  fell  back  a  few  yards  down  stream 
with  the  current  and  hovered  nearer  the 
water.  From  the  opening  in  the  belly  a 
rope  was  lowered,  just  as  the  man  in  the 
black  tights  came  to  the  surface  bearing  a 
heavy  burden  in  his  arms.  It  could  be 
seen  that  he  wore  a  heavy  belt  and  that  the 
rope  had  a  bright  hook  dangling  at  the 
end.  But  the  man  fastened  the  hook  in  the 
belt  of  the  body  he  bore,  then  sank  back 
into  the  water  again.  Up  the  body  was 
jerked,  and  Jason  could  see  it  was  that  of 
the  black-bearded  hercules  he  had  knocked 
overboard.  Again  the  rope  dropped,  still 
farther  down  stream  fell  the  winged  mon- 
ster, and  again  the  man  in  the  black  tights 


152  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

came  up.  This  time  he  also  had  a  burden 
but  it  was  not  so  big,  and  around  the 
shapely  figure  clung  the  wet,  feminine  at- 
tire of  the  pretty  Indian  bride.  Up  the 
diver  was  jerked,  the  dripping  bundle  in 
his  arms;  then  the  mysterious  thing  of  the 
air  came  and  stood  by  the  side  of  the  wreck. 
At  this  point,  to  Jason,  the  world  faded 
into  space;  everything  got  black,  and  he 
knew  no  more. 

One  hour  later,  Jason  Sands,  Jack  Phil- 
ips and  Juarez  Spanto  slid  down  the  chute 
of  the  Comet  to  the  life-net  of  the  Agitator 
anchored  in  Norton  Sound,  five  hundred 
miles  away. 

Jason  opened  his  eyes  for  the  first  time 
since  his  collapse  on  the  Aurora.  He  was 
lying  on  thistle-down. !  He  knew  it  was 
thistle-down,  for  he  could  sense  the  furry 
fibers  tickling  his  cheek  and  the  giant  thistle 
upon  which  he  rested  was  nodding  gently 
in  the  breezes  and  the  morning  sunshine! 
As  further  proof  that  he  was  in  fairyland, 
he  toyed  with  the  elusive  stuff  which  por- 
ridged  through  his  fingers  like  soap  lather 
on  his  shaving  brush.  He  was  in  a  strange 
and  wonderful  place ;  he  knew  that,  for  out 
of  the  heavens  glowed  a  blended,  garnet- 
emerald  light  that  seemed  to  be  the  very 
walls  of  his  new  world.  At  first  he  thought 
he  was  dead  and  that  his  spirit  was  being 
wafted  among  the  planets  and  into  Para- 
dise. He  was  lying  in  a  hospital  hammock 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  153 

on  the  Agitator,  the  most  wonderful  ship 
ever  conceived  in  the  fertile  brain  of  man. 

For  some  moments  the  puzzled  man  lay 
still  on  his  back  and  stared  at  the  strange 
liquid  glow  that  came  from  nowhere  and 
yet  from  everywhere.  He  dared  not 
move  or  speak  for  fear  of  waking  up 
to  find  it  all  a  dream.  But  men  were 
speaking.  He  could  hear  voices,  and  such 
voices  he  had  never  heard  before.  They 
were  surely  the  voices  of  men,  and  in  that 
they  were  merely  human  voices  was  not  the 
marvel ;  but  that  there  was  a  quality  of  tone 
about  their  manner  of  speech  belonging  not 
to  human  tongue.  They  were  the  voices  of 
men,  he  knew  that,  but  never  of  mere  earth- 
men!  Mellow,  they  were,  and  musically 
sweet,  like  the  tuned  reeds  of  some  perfect 
musical  instrument  muted  with  a  mute  of 
silver.  Jason  moved  his  hands  just  to  make 
sure  he  really  lived,  and  a  voice  at  his 
pillow — a  voice  that  had  all  the  elements 
of  a  suppressed  laugh  in  it — called  out,  en- 
couragingly, "Professor,  this  comrade  will 
live."' 

"Of  course  he  will  live,  Captain/'  came 
the  positive  re  joiner.  Then  Jason  felt  a 
hand  grip  his  own,  and  raising  his  eyes  he 
beheld,  though  indistinctly,  a  tall,  hand- 
some youth  of  perhaps  twenty,  smiling 
down  at  him  from  eyes  that  were  wide  apart 
and  full  of  warmth  and  love. 

"  Where  am  I?"  queried  the  perplexed 


154  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

Jason.  "I  am  not  a  sick  man,  what  does  it 
all  mean?" 

"It  means  that  you  and  your  comrades 
have  had  a  very  tight  squeeze,  and  that  you 
are  now  safe  among  comrades  and  friends; 
and  if  you  will  wait  and  rest  I  will  tell  you 
all  about  it.  And  now,  here  is  a  drink  of 
cold  water.  Take  this,  and  then  we  will  all 
turn  in  and  have  a  good  night's  sleep." 

Jason  looked  at  the  young  man  at  his 
side  and  wanted  to  protest  and  insist  that 
there  was  nothing  really  serious  the  matter 
with  him;  but  there  was  something  in  the 
manner  and  voice  of  the  frank,  calm  boy 
that  forbade  the  rebellion.  Besides,  there 
was  the  goblet  of  sparkling  cold  water,  and 
he  wanted  it. 

The  heavy  head  sank  back  on  its  pillow. 
The  youth  touched  a  button  in  the  wall, 
and  softly  the  tinted  glow  melted  away 
through  a  mellow  twilight  and  into  a  sky 
of  inky  blackness.  Almost  simultaneously 
with  the  fading  of  the  tinted  light  there 
came  over  him  a  sense  of  sweetest  rest 
such  as  he  had  never  known  in  all  his  life 
before.  The  quiet  was  so  intense  as  to 
produce  a  psychic  musical  harmony  of  the 
inert  molecules  of  the  very  etherical  silence. 
He  knew  he  could  hear  the  music,  but  it 
was  so  infinitely  delicate  and  fine  that  with 
abated  breath  and  ears  straining  he  was 
barely  able  to  sense  it.  It  was  like  water 
dropping  among  musical  combs  far  on  the 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  155 

mountain  side.  Or  was  it  seraph  hands 
playing  some  heavenly  authem  on  musical 
glasses  of  rarest  crystal?  It  came  into  his 
ears  at  times  like  the  fuzzy  tones  of  the 
horse  hair  reeds  he  used  to  fix  between  the 
window  sashes  when  a  hoy,  and  that  no  one 
could  acount  for  save  himself.  Then  it  would 
tinkle  merrily  for  a  space,  like  midget 
gnomes  dancing  their  fantastic  pirou- 
ettes in  tiptoe  twirls  along  fiddle-strings. 
And  finally,  it  rippled  away  into  space  like 
the  silvery  waters  of  a  peaceful  woodland 
lake,  nimbly  nibbling  along  the  pebbly 
shores  of  its  wild  abode.  All  the  world  was 
in  tune.  He  smiled  happily  as  he  contem- 
plated it;  then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  in- 
vited sleep. 

At  daybreak  next  morning,  Jason  awoke 
to  find  himself  swinging  gently  in  a  bed 
hanging  from  above.  The  ship  was  roll- 
ing lazily  to  the  even  swell  of  the  green 
waters  of  Behring  Sea.  Dimly  he  could 
hear  the  breaking  billows  spraying  on  the 
rugged  shores  of  the  Sound.  Also,  the  wild, 
ricketting  notes  of  sea-birds  reached  his 
ears,  mingled  with  the  voices  of  men  on 
the  strange  ship.  He  rocked  his  head,  and 
from  either  side  of  the  space  he  rested  in 
he  could  look  far  out  through  the  fine 
meshes  of  screens  that  seemed  made  of 
white  silk  thread,  and  he  could  see  the  vast 
expanse  of  ocean  as  the  ship  rose  and  fell 
with  the  rising  and  falling  of  each  rolling 


156  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

wave.  He  was  practically  out  of  doors. 
But  there  was  no  uncomfortable  chill  in  the 
air,  though  he  knew  the  degree  of  tem- 
perature out  there  must  be  low.  Moreover, 
the  air  that  came  to  him  through  the  white 
silk  screens  was  deliciously  blent  with  the 
salten  odors  of  the  sea,  odors  such  as  only 
those  who  fare  the  mighty  ocean  know. 
He  felt  no  pain,  but  was  conscious  of  a 
great  hunger;  and  in  reply  to  a  jovial 
"Good  morning,  Comrade,"  that  came  from 
somewhere  in  that  same  laugh-suppressing 
voice  he  had  heard  in  the  evening,  he  sat 
bolt  upright  and  replied:  "I  don't  know 
who  you  are,  nor  where  I  am;  but  I'm 
hungrier  than  a  graven  image." 

"My  name  is  Hautier,  Comrade,  and  you 
are  on  board  the  Agitator,  a  ship  belong- 
ing to  the  Socialist  party,  which  party  is 
the  political  expression  of  the  great  Inter- 
national Co-operative  Democracy,  or  Inter- 
national Socialist  party.  I  am  the  captain 
of  this  ship,  and  of  course,  I  am  a  Social- 
ist. We  are  comrades.  You  shall  know 
more  of  us  for  we  are  cruising  the  world 
in  the  interest  of  the  new  science  and  I 
learn  from  the  professor  that  you  are  to 
accompany  us  if  you  so  desire.  And  now 
you  may  prepare  for  breakfast,  for  I  un- 
derstand you  slept  well  through  the  night 
and  that  you  are  able  to  go  on  deck." 

With  this  the  captain  touched  a  red  spot 
on  the  wall  and  the  swinging  bed  sank  -until 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  157 

it  rested  on  the  floor.  Ten  minutes  later 
Jason  Sands  was  on  the  open  deck  where 
he  found  the  doctor  and  Jack  Philips  had 
preceded  him. 

Captain  Hautier,  a  stocky  blonde  French- 
man and  the  son  of  a  Communard,  was 
speaking,  while  Jack  and  the  Aztec  ap- 
peared fairly  beside  themselves  with  ex- 
citement. 

"No,  no,  they  are  alive  I  tell  you,"  the 
captain  was  saying.  And  Jack  was  pro- 
testing: "But  he  killed  him  I  tell  you,  and 
I  choked  two  of  them  to  death!"  At 
the  same  time  the  doctor  was  almost 
screeching:  "They  drowned  her,  sir;  did 
they  not  throw  her  overboard?" 

Speechless,  Jason  rushed  forward  to 
learn  that  the  Aztec's  young  bride  was  alive, 
that  the  two  men  Jack  had  strangled  were 
alive,  and  that  the  robber  chief  he  had 
knocked  overboard  was  alive  and  were  all 
on  board  and  doing  as  well  as  could  be 
expected  under  the  circumstances! 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  quiet  the  joy- 
crazed  Spanto.  He  wanted  to  be  rushed  at 
once  to  the  bedside  of  his  young  wife;  for 
was  he  not  a  physician?  But  the  captain 
persuaded  him  that  it  would  be  best  to 
wait.  The  child  was  sleeping,  he  told  him, 
and  besides,  she  was  very  low,  life  hanging 
by  a  mere  thread  which  any  sudden  excite- 
ment might  be  the  means  of  snapping. 

"Listen  here,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  try 


158  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

to  make  it  all  clear — but  wait!  here  comes 
Symbols  to  tell  us  breakfast  is  waiting  be- 
low." (Symbols  was  the  Japanese  cabin 
boy,  whose  right  name  was  Yama  Yama. 
Captain  Hautier  had  nicknamed  him 
"Symbols"  because  the  silk  costumes  he  al- 
ways wore  were  embroidered  with  green 
dragons.)  The  little  Jap  led  the  way  to  the 
long  mess-room,  his  baggy  pa  jama  trousers 
fluttering  around  his  bare  ankles  like  spit- 
sheets  in  a  hurricane. 

Introductions  and  handshakes  were  the 
order  of  the  moment  and  they  were  both 
abundant  and  generous.  There  were  glad- 
some greetings  from  twenty  robust  sailor 
lads  garbed  in  white  linen,  who  grinned 
like  happy  children  when  Captain  Hautier 
promised  Jason  Sands  the  surprise  of  his 
life  when  the  professor  should  appear. 
With  this,  Symbols  whirled  and  shot 
through  the  door,  to  plunge  headlong  into 
the  young  scientist  who  caught  him  up  and 
spanked  him  playfully  as  he  entered  the 
mess-room.  Swiftly  the  lithe  figure  of  the 
rose-cheeked  prodigy  glided  forward  to  the 
long  table,  the  entire  ship's  company  sa- 
luting him  in  chorus  with :  ' '  Good  morning, 
Comrade  Sands."  The  almost  feminine 
features  flushed  with  the  glow  of  perfect 
health  and  rampant  vigor,  and  the  clear 
eyes  sparkled  childishly  as  he  bent  a  rapid 
succession  of  responsive  smiles  on  all,  and 
in  a  voice  vibrant  with  virility  and  cultured 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  159 

excellence  lie  greeted  them  with  cordial  so- 
licitations for  their  good  health. 

Captain  Hautier  arose,  a  grotesque  grin 
stretching  from  ear  to  ear  across  his  broad 
face.  The  boy  scientist  was  in  the  act  of 
taking  his  seat  at  the  table  when  the  stocky 
navigator  raised  his  hand  and  stayed  him. 
Then  waving  Jason  to  his  feet  with  great 
pseudo-solemnity  after  the  manner  of  the 
jester  that  he  was,  proceeded  to  introduce 
the  two  men,  thus:  ''Professor  Sands, 
shake  hands  with  Comrade  Jason  Sands  of 
New  Hampshire."  Then  turning  to  Jason 
he  continued:  "This  young  man  is  Com- 
rade Professor  Quimby  Sands,  also  from 
New  Hampshire.  He  is  the  inventor  of 
this  wonderful  ship  with  all  of  its  ma- 
chinery and  devices  for  life-saving  and  life- 
giving,  as  well  as  the  airship  that  rescued 
you  and  your  party  last  night,  and  the 
great  optiscopo graph,  or  right-angle-tri- 
angle radium  ray.  Who  knows  but  that 
you  two  boys  may  be  related?" 

The  two  men  were  facing  each  other. 
The  one  huge,  and  broad  and  grey,  the 
other  young,  fully  as  tall  but  less  broad, 
and  possessing  a  gorgeous  wealth  of  curly 
auburn  hair.  Suddenly  the  battered  patri- 
arch leaned  forward,  his  face  the  color  of 
chalk!  He  was  staring  at  a  small  peculiar 
scar  over  the  other's  left  eye.  No  man 
spoke  but  every  breath  was  stayed.  It  was 
a  pregnant  moment!  All  eyes  were  on 


160  THE  TORCH  OP  REASON. 

Jason  Sands,  who  was  shaking  as  with  a 
palsy.  Into  his  sad,  far-gazing  eyes,  a  new 
light  appeared.  They  were  riveted  on  the 
prototype  of  his  erstwhile  self  before  him. 
The  other  seemed  to  have  turned  to  marble. 
It  was  a  magnificent  sight,  this  picture  of 
vigorous  youth  and  hoary  age.  Presently 
two  pairs  of  pale  lips  parted.  Four  hands 
shot  out  to  embrace  as  with  a  single  im- 
pulse. Four  eyes  filled  with  tears — tears  of 
joy  and  victory,  as  two  voices  cried  out  in 
unison : 

"My  father!" 

"My  boy!" 

A  scene  for  the  gods  was  this!  There 
was  not  a  dry  eye  at  that  moment.  Even 
Jocular  Joe,  the  blithe  salt-dog  of  the  sea, 
fell  a  victim  of  his  own  buffoonery,  and 
laughed  acrying  as  father  and  son,  arm-in- 
arm, headed  for  the  private  den  of  the 
wizard  prince.  Neither  man  spoke,  but  the 
younger  waved  a  hand  as  they  passed  from 
view  and  all  understood.  Also  Symbols 
knew,  and  flew  to  give  orders  for  a  lunch 
for  two  to  be  served,  for  the  first  time,  in 
the  wonderous  muted  "tune"  room  which 
his  beloved  "Fessor,"  as  he  called  him, 
termed  his  "Laboratory." 

Jason  Sands  had  found  his  long  lost  son. 
He  had  found  him  in  the  most  marvelous 
manner  and  under  circumstances  rivaling 
in  their  startling  character  the  fabled  ro- 
mances of  the  Arabian  Nights.  Strangely 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  161 

enough  the  father  and  son  were  the  first 
on  deck  after  the  morning  meal.  What 
with  the  rapid  turn  of  rapidly  occurring 
events,  the  rest  were  prone  to  long-drawn- 
out  discussions  and  much  merrymaking. 

With  the  beautiful  silver-like  vessel  rid- 
ing at  anchor  on  the  peaceful  waters  of  the 
Sound,  they  sat  in  the  August  sunshine  of 
that  north  latitude  and  listened,  each  to  the 
other's  story  of  the  separation  that  had 
been  so  cruel  and  so  long.  Who  in  The  Image 
shall  come  to  paint  the  picture  of  that 
grand  reunion?  Who  of  tongue  or  pen  the 
yearning  of  their  souls  may  tell?  Many 
partings  there  have  been,  but  reunions  such 
as  this  had  seldom  come.  Who  but  loved 
ones  that  have  parted  can  ever  understand  ? 
Men  in  human  form  there  be  who  never 
understand,  and  they  are  not  all  men  who 
wear  the  human  form:  the  mental  helots 
at  the  two  poles  of  society — the  brutalized 
rich  and  the  brutalized  poor — both  human 
infusoria!  These  can  never  understand. 
The  subservient  hireling  can  never  know. 
O  shame  on  him  who  knows  not  he  is  a 
slave!  Shame  on  him  who  cannot  shed  a 
tear!  Shame  on  him  who  fears  a  healthy 
dream ;  who  dare  not  think  a  rebel  thought ; 
who  will  not  read  the  printed  page!  How 
hardly  may  such  ever  know,  or  feel,  or 
come  to  understand? 

Joe  Hautier,  the  big,  jolly  captain  (and 
a  bigger  "jolly"  than  he  was  a  captain), 


162  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

came  suddenly  upon  little  Yama  Yama 
hiding  near,  and  listening  eagerly  to  the 
fervored  conversation  of  father  and  son, 
as  they  reviewed  each  his  futile  efforts  of 
the  past  to  find  each  other.  It  was  evident, 
though  he  had  been  among  the  Americans 
less  than  a  month,  that  the  chubby  Jap- 
anese understood  the  new,  strange  compan- 
ionship of  his  dearly  loved  rescuer  and  the 
older  man  with  only  one  leg,  for  he  was 
clearly  weeping.  The  boy  was  an  orphan. 
His  father  and  two  brothers  had  bought  the 
badge  of  "  patriotism "  dearly  with  their 
blood  at  Port  Arthur.  When  the  news 
came  home  to  the  little  mother,  she  was 
lying  on  a  sick  bed.  She  had  been  taught, 
and  likewise  she  had  taught  her  sons,  that 
it  was  noble  and  glorious  to  both  kill  and 
be  killed  in  battle!  The  very  foundation 
of  all  religions  is  cemented  to  "civiliza- 
tion" with  the  blood  of  wars.  She  called 
little  Yama  Yama  to  her  side  and  told  him 
she  was  going  to  die.  "My  son,"  she  said, 
"it  is  good  to  die."  "Harken,  my  son,  for 
I,  your  mother,  am  dying.  The  Russians 
killed  your  father  who  built  our  little  home 
here  among  the  flowers.  They  killed  your 
brothers  who  taught  you  to  build  temples 
to  Buddha  in  the  soft  sands  of  the  seashore. 
It  is  glorious!  Would  that  you,  too,  my 
son,  had  been  older.  Grow  strong  and 
brave,  my  son,  that  thy  blow  may  fall  hard 
upon  a  beating  heart,  and  thy  red  blood 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  163 

splash  hot  on  the  face  of  thy,  perchance, 
more  powerful  adversary. " 

The  babe  had  listened  to  her  dying  words, 
and  his  every  wakeful  moment  he  dreamed 
of  the  flashing  sword  and  the  crackle  of 
musketry,  and  of  the  hot  blood-splashings, 
and  of  the  day  when  he,  too,  might  become 
a  brave  soldier,  to  feel  the  hot  splash  upon 
his  own  cheek  as  he  vanquished  a  less  for- 
tunate fellow  in  battle,  or  yielding  up  his 
own,  as  the  Great  Mikado  should  direct. 
No  amount  of  influence  aboard  the  Agita- 
tor had,  as  yet,  sufficed  to  change  him, 
although  he  loved,  and  was  in  turn  loved 
by  all;  for  these  teachings  were  the  last 
words  of  his  mother,  and  "was  she  not  his 
mother?" 

The  Agitator  had  found  the  boy  starving 
while  cruising  the  western  waters  for  pic- 
tures. Her  regal  spirit,  the  young  scientist, 
picked  him  up  and  made  him  cabin  boy— 
if  cabin  boy  on  board  the  Agitator  that 
service  may  be  called.  Captain  Joe  loved 
the  bright  lad  with  all  his  great,  fond  heart ; 
for  Joe  had  none  to  call  him  sire,  and  like 
all  who  near  the  Summit  where  no  flowers 
grow  to  bless  their  coming,  he  was  begin- 
ning to  starve  for  children.  But  he  liked 
to  tease  the  little  cherub,  and  to  startle  him 
with  his  clown-like  frown;  for  Joe  Hautier 
had  never  been  tried  for  bein^r  a  handsomp 
man! 


164  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"Here,  you  young  tadpole,"  he  snapped 
in  mimic  anger,  "I  caught  you  that  time! 
Spying  on  shipboard,  'eh?"  Down  went 
the  innocent  Jap  on  knees  and  face,  his 
tiny  hands  clasped  above  his  head,  as  he 
implored  his  holy  commander  not  to  chop 
off.  his  miserable  head,  a  punishment  he 
firmly  believed  his  awful  offense  warranted. 
Back  and  forth  he  groveled,  his  little  black 
eyes  fairly  hanging  from  the  bias  slits  in 
his  yellow  cheeks.  The  poor  waif  prom- 
ised by  all  the  gods  and  Buddha,  and  all 
the  snakes,  frogs,  and  dragons,  and  a  whole 
lot  of  other  things  of  which  the  droll 
Frenchman  was  unfamiliar,  that  never 
would  he  do  it  again,  never,  never!  if  only 
his  worthless  head  might  be  spared. 

"Yama  Yama — Symbolee,  la  lo  lee  Jap!" 
wailed  the  simple  heathen.  "Him  falla 
Lushian  killela !  Poor  Yama  Yama !  Him 
twola  bloula  samee  Lussian  warlee  killela! 
Poorlee  Symbolee — Yama  Yama !  O  Capta 
Ota,  gomen!  gomen!" 

"Sure  little  hun,  I  will  forgive  you," 
soothingly  the  bluff  seaman  cried;  "and 
now  forget  it  and  climb  up  here  and  get 
in  your  old  'Capta  Ota's'  vest  pocket  and 
sing  me  a  heathen  song  all  in  that  monkey 
tongue  of  yours."  And  stooping  to  the 
sobbing  child  the  bronzed  sailor  gathered 
up  the  little  lump  of  foreign  drift-wood 
and  tenderly  caressed  away  the  penitent 
tears. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  165 

"I  hope  that  will  teach  you  a  lesson," 
he  chided  himself  when  it  was  all  over  and 
he  was  alone.  "Poor  kid!  And  to  think 
that  I  once  was  that  innocent  and  ignorant 
myself!  Who  have  I  to  thank  that  I  did 
not  stay  that  way?  There  are  millions  of 
them — millions  of  them,  poor  little  orphans 
-victims  of  capitalistic  butchery,"  he 
added  sorrowfully. 

Ere  the  water  had  dried  from  Toy's 
•dusky  tresses  subsequent  to  her  rescue  from 
the  Yukon  River,  she  was  breathing  easily 
and  resting  painlessly  on  a  swinging  cot  in 
the  Agitator's  hospital.  When  taken  from 
the  water  the  girl  was  dead.  She  had  been 
drowned!  but  the  modern  methods  of  ex- 
tracting water  from  the  lungs,  together 
with  the  Sands  method  of  acceleratory  cir- 
culation and  forced  respiration,  had  never 
failed  where  positive  death  of  the  blood 
corpuscles  from  coagulation  in  the  heart 
had  not  already  taken  place.  It  did  not 
fail  now.  A  human  life  in  perfect  health 
had  been  snatched  from  the  red  fangs  of 
death;  but  the  good  priest  said  it  was  the 
works  of  the  Devil,  and  that  God's  law  had 
been  confounded  and  His  will  defied! 

It  was  while  seated  in  his  laboratory  test- 
ing the  temperature  and  adjusting  the  sen- 
sitive electrical  machinery  to  the  Cosmic 
Tune,  that  young  Sands  had  noticed  a 
slight  disturbance  of  the  seism ographic 
needle,  followed  by  the  report  of  the  ex- 


166  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

plosion  recorded  on  the  sounding  board  of 
the  oscillophone.  With  a  swift  movement 
he  opened  the  shutter,  and  the  wonderful 
ray  of  white  light  that  had  given  the  na- 
tives such  a  needless  scare,  was  playing 
on  the  wreck  ere  the  smoke  lifted. 

It  came  to  him  while  reading  Spencer, 
wherein  he  says:  "Life  is  the  continuous 
adjustment  of  internal  relations  with  ex- 
ternal relations,"  that,  Life  is  simply  a 
chemical  tune  played  upon  the  Great  Harp 
— Change.  All  things  in  the  Universe  were 
so  much  chemical  substance,  animated  into 
cellular  activity  and  correlated,  specialized 
and  united  in  organisms  according  to  tem- 
perature and  environment  from  within  and 
from  without.  Nothing  was  "made,"  and 
fixed,  and  set  up  to  be,  but  everything 
was  a  growth,  an  evolution,  a  transforma- 
tion— a  change.  Man  was  simply  one  note 
in  the  Great  Tune,  Life.  And  to  be  a  per- 
fect note  he  must  be  in  perfect  tune  with 
the  Great  Law — Change. 

The  planets  are  in  tune,  was  his  theory, 
and  the  planets  are  at  peace  with  each 
other.  "Man,"  he  replied  to  the  good 
priest,  "is  sadly  out  of  tune  with  Life. 
This  is  why  he  withers,  sickens,  weakens, 
fails  and  dies.  I  have  given  this  girl  back 
her  life  only  by  restoring  her  to  tune  with 
Life,  and  you  tell  me  I  have  beaten  down 
the  parapets  of  Heaven,  overthrown  the 
authority  and  destroyed  the  law  of  God! 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  167 

Well,  then,  if  it  is  God's  will  that  the 
innocent  become  victims  of  cold-blooded 
murder  for  profit,  and  further,  if  it  be 
true  that  I  have  overruled  the  Supreme 
Court  of  Heaven,  blasted  the  mandates  of 
its  saintly  congress  and  vetoed  the  dictum 
of  such  a  god,  then  I  am  greater  than  he, 
and  henceforth  he  will  have  to  show  me, 
as  they  say  in  Missouri.  I  am  highly 
delighted  to  become  a  rebel  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, and  I  have  only  love  and  pity 
for  the  dumb  dupes  who  will  meekly  tol- 
erate such  a  deadly  invasion  of  their  rights 
without  resenting  the  bald  insult  to  their 
intelligence. " 

Now  in  the  case  of  " Bluebeard"  it  was 
different.  There  was  neither  air  nor  water 
in  his  lungs,  but  they  were  full  of  bones 
instead.  The  bones  Jason  had  broken  were 
turned  in,  piercing  the  lungs  and  inflicting 
ample  wounds  to  cause  death  in  the  ordi- 
nary man;  but  this  was  no  ordinary  indi- 
vidual. Jason's  blow  had  wrought  a 
complete  disarrangement  of  the  functional 
organisms,  and  caused  a  discordant  panic 
to  take  place  among  the  cell  life  which 
rendered  the  big  man  temporarily  helpless. 
But  with  the  broken  bones  quickly  re- 
placed, the  lungs  freed  of  dead  blood,  and 
with  the  scientific  treatment  he  received  at 
the  hands  of  the  Agitator's  surgical  me- 
chanics, the  big  beast  refused  to  lay  quiet, 
and  when  the  other  two  robbers  were 


168  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

turned  over  to  the  authorities  the  following 
afternoon  he  went  with  them  to  answer, 
unjustly,  for  one  more  of  Capitalism's  so- 
cial crimes.  The  three  repentent  men  made 
full  confessions  to  the  officers  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  good  priest,  thus  obviating  the 
annoyance  of  detaining  the  Comet's  crew 
as  witnesses  at  the  trial. 

"It  is  with  deepest  regret  that  we  are 
compelled  to  turn  these  poor  hoys  over  to 
you  to  have  their  wretched  lives  jerked  out 
at  the  end  of  a  rope,"  the  scientist  said,  as 
the  pudgy  commander  of  the  Revenue  Cut- 
ter blustered  authoritatively  up  and  down 
the  Agitator's  deck. 

"It  is  the  law,  sir;  it  is  the  law,  and  these 
murderers  must  pay  the  penalty  as  they 
justly  deserve.  They  must  be  punished, 
sir;  and  they'll  get  what's  coming  to  them, 
sir,  and  don't  you  forget  it,  sir,"  thundered 
the  red-faced  thug  in  water-cop  uniform. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  law!"  sadly  reflected  the 
other,  "the  law  that  sees  only  effect,  and 
never  concerns  itself  with  cause.  It  is  the 
law  of  self-interest.  The  law  of  '  might 
makes  right' — the  law  of  the  strong  ruling 
the  weak  with  an  iron  hand!  It  is  the 
law  which  punishes  'crime'  with  more 
crime,  aggravating  rather  than  lessening 
the  disease  it  pretends  to  cure.  It  belongs 
to  the  Dark  Ages,  and  has  no  place  among 
civilized  men  of  this  progressive  period." 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  169 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  sir,"  exploded 
the  United  States  authority  on  contraband 
rum,  "fur-fishes"  and  opium  smuggling, 
"that  you  milk-and-water  mollycoddles 
would  abolish  all  law,  insult  the  dignity  of 
Uncle  Sam,  and  turn  the  country  over  to 
thieves,  murderers  and  scoundrels  and  let 
them  go  unpunished?  That's  Socialism,  is 
it?"  he  stormed  on,  "if  I  had  my  way  I 
would  plant  a  mine  under  you  anarchists 
and  blow  you  all  to  kingdom  come.  So 
that's  your  game,  'er?" 

Jason  Sands,  who,  a  moment  ago,  was 
seated  gazing  disinterestedly  far  out  to 
sea,  drew  up  and  eyed  the  squat  boss  of 
the  North  Pacific  through  narrowed  lids 
from  which  a  strange  light  gleamed!  He 
had  noticed  a  slight  curling  of  his  son's 
lip  as  that  young  man  turned  to  flash  a 
silent  signal  to  Capt.  Hautier,  while  the 
bland  Father  Munne  rubbed  his  fat  hands 
gleefully,  and  it  could  be  seen  where  his 
economic  interests  blended. 

"Why  don't  you  answer  the  Government 
Officer,  sir?"  the  good  priest  challenged. 
"Are  you  afraid  to  reply  to  the  honorable 
commander's  most  pertinent  question,  sir?" 

"No.  I  am  not  afraid  to  speak,"  re- 
sponded the  Agitator's  inventor,  still  sadly. 
"Among  other  things,  my  early  teaching 
was  to  the  effect  that  God  favored  some 
men  with  more  brains  than  others,  and  that 
those  so  favored  were  his  chosen  people, 


170  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

who  should  always  look  with  tolerance  and 
due  consideration  on  the  feeble-minded. 
My  heart  suddenly  overflowed  with  a  great 
pity;  for  the  moment,  my  tongue  was  en- 
gulfed and  in  pure  charity  my  speech  was 
drowned.  How  may  the  tongue  of  reason 
answer  to  the  logic  of  fools?  Men  who 
absorb  their  ideas  from  the  same  source 
from  which  their  cheques  are  drawn  may 
not  be  expected  to  pose  as  paragons  of  jus- 
tice and  virtue.  And  if  it  were  true  that 
the  Socialists  propose  to  turn  the  country 
with  its  100,000,000  souls  over  to  a  worse 
gang  of  'robbers,  murderers  and  scoun- 
drels' than  which  at  present  have  the  na- 
tion and  its  people  by  the  throat,  I  confess 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  where  this  side  of 
Hell  they  are  to  be  found." 

"And  now  you,  Captain  Mullock,"  Jason 
volunteered,  stepping  close  beside  that  irate 
functionary,  "are  but  a  creature — a  uni- 
formed watchdog  of  a  robber  plutocracy 
which  makes  criminals  out  of  honest  men 
and  the  children  of  honest  parents,  then 
turns  around  and  jails  or  hangs  them  to 
hide  its  own  guilt,  distracting,  thereby,  the 
wrath  of  the  ignorant  populace  from  the 
real  offenders  while  it  piously  soaks  the 
crimson  stains  from  its  taloned  claws  with 
the  crocodile  tears  of  religious  hypocrisy." 

As  he  departed  with  his  three  hapless 
prisoners,  Capt.  Mullock  indulged  in  a 
hasty  brain-storm  of  eagle-scream  patriot- 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  171 

isin,  furiously  swearing  he  would  blow  all 
kinds  of  hell  out  of  the  Agitator  and  her 
whole  "  red- throated  "outfit  if  they  were 
anywhere  on  the  horizon  at  sunrise. 

"We  will  not  be  here,  Captain  Mullock," 
the  boy  assured  him,  "for,"  said  he,  "we 
are  billed  to  exhibit  our  horns  to  the  graft- 
ers of  Victoria,  British  Columbia,  and 
Seattle,  Washington,  to-morrow  night,  and 
as  it  is  a  stroll  of  some  four  thousand  miles 
we  shall  have  to  get  an  early  start  this  very 
evening  in  order  to  visit  along  the  way  and 
make  it  a  pleasure  trip  for  our  new-found 
friends.  But  perhaps  we  shall  meet  again, 
so  cheer  up,  the  worst  is  yet  to  come." 

"And  now  you  get  back  to  your  old 
booze  tub  and  don't  let's  hear  another  yip 
out  o'  you,  or  I'll  boil  you  like  a  lobster 
in  a  pot,"  Captain  Hautier  commanded. 
And  with  this  he  pressed  his  hand  inside  his 
spotless  linen  coat,  and  up  shot  the  mighty 
white  pillar  of  flame  for  a  space,  then  down 
came  the  angular  pillar  like  a  white  sun- 
beam and  played  upon  the  other  craft,  re- 
vealing its  black  hulk  through  the  darkness 
like  a  phantom  ship  on  a  desert  sea. 

As  the  brass-buttoned  giver  of  orders 
(taken  from  higher  up)  pushed  off  from  the 
Agitator,  her  grinning  commander  gave 
another  signal,  and  the  angular  ray  was 
joined  by  another  electro-radium  shaft  shot 
straight  out  from  the  ship  like  the  boom 
of  a  mainsail.  With  this  the  ray  began  to 


172  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

spin  around  the  government  cutter  like 
skip-waters  around  the  head  of  an  adder. 
At  the  first  impact  there  shot  up  a  gigantic 
water-spout  hundreds  of  feet  in  height. 
Added  to  this  came  a  hissing  and  sizzling 
noise  like  boiling  water  mingled  with  es- 
caping steam,  or  like  cold  water  spilled  on 
a  red-hot  stove.  Around  and  around  the 
fire-shaft  flew,  until  it  resembled  a  great 
cornucopia  of  daylight  in  the  midst  of 
midnight.  The  water  boiled,  foamed  and 
leaped  high  up  in  the  air,  while  the  little 
wooden  craft  rocked  and  pitched,  rolled  and 
floundered,  the  crew  wildly  yelling  the 
while  with  fear. 

Captain  Mullock  shook  his  fat  fist  back 
at  the  Agitator,  and  fumed,  swore  and 
snarled  in  a  loud  voice  that  nobody  could 
hear  or  understand. 

Having  thus  amused  himself  to  his 
heart's  content,  Captain  Hautier  once 
more  pressed  his  hand  inside  his  coat  and 
the  boom-like  ray  was  cut  off  and  the 
boiling  ceased,  though  clouds  of  steam  con- 
tinued to  rise  for  many  minutes  there- 
after. Once  on  board  his  ship,  Captain 
Mullock  was  seen  to  rush  madly  among  his 
crew  shouting  orders  and  waving  his  short, 
fat  arms  like  a  bear  in  a  bee's  nest.  Plac- 
ing a  small  disk-shaped  affair  to  his  lips, 
Joker  Joe  called  out  to  him:  "I  say, 
'Dewey,'  when  is  the  firing  to  begin?"  But 
the  only  reply  that  came  back  was  the  un- 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  173 

mistakable  rumble  of  anchor  heaving,  and 
in  a  remarkably  short  space  of  time  the 
"Terror"  was  under  way  and  rapidly  dis- 
appearing into  the  darkness  down  the 
Sound. 

A  reception  and  entertainment  on  board 
the  Agitator  had  been  announced  for  that 
very  evening,  and  boat  after  boat  from  the 
shore  had  already  pulled  along  side  with 
its  load  of  wonder- wrought  humanity. 
The  performance  with  the  triangle  ray  was 
resumed,  and  many  marvelous  and  beauti- 
ful colorings  were  added  to  the  radio- 
activity. Then  came  the  electro-magnetic 
currents,  which  vitalized  the  radium  pillar 
and  its  auxiliary  triangle,  causing  it  to 
spread  out  into  a  perfect  figure  four,  not 
unlike  in  appearance  an  enormous  sail  of 
white  fire,  reaching  into  the  very  heavens 
and  stretching  far  out  over  the  sea  and 
land.  Without  the  electro-magnetic  cur- 
rents the  light  was  perfectly  cold  and  harm- 
less; but  with  this  well-known  power  as  an 
accompaniment,  a  terrific  heat  was  gen- 
erated that  nothing  on  earth  or  in  earth 
could  withstand.  Also  a  splendid  thunder 
and  lightning  display  was  as  simple  and 
easy  of  manipulation  as  the  turning  of  a 
switch  or  the  pressing  of  an  electric  but- 
ton. And  the  wonders  of  this  new  dis- 
covery did  not  stop  here.  In  fact  its  uses 
were  almost  limitless ;  and  among  the  many 
benefits  with  which  it  was  come  to  bless 


174  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

mankind,  were  the  creating  of  a  cool,  vital- 
izing shower  of  rain  in  the  brightest  and 
hottest  day  in  summer,  or  the  coldest  day 
in  winter.  It  could  dispel  the  darkness 
and  cold  of  a  winter 's  night,  turning  it 
into  a  warm  and  perfect  day;  and  when 
young  Sands  first  conceived  of  it,  it  had 
been  simply  his  intention  to  create  a  better 
means  of  lighting  for  great  cities.  But  in 
this  hope  he  had  met  with  only  partial 
success,  for,  as  yet,  he  had  not  perfected 
the  tMnbreUa  ray  upon  which  he  still  exper- 
imented all  of  his  spare  time. 

The  night  was  now  dark,  and  the  next 
number  on  the  program  was  the  Comet. 
'Twas  this  the  natives  had  come  to  see. 
There  was  a  bustle  of  excitement  amid- 
ships when  a  small  aluminum  tube  pushed 
itself  up  through  the  center  of  the  whale- 
back  deck  and  announced  in  a  loud  voice,  a 
thousand  times  clearer  than  ever  came 
from  the  throat  of  man,  that  the  Comet 
was  about  to  appear,  and  for  all  hands  to 
crowd  aft  and  stand  still. 

The  adjustable  observatory  or  "crow's 
nest,"  was  occupied  by  the  two  Sands', 
Jack  Philips,  the  Mexican  and  his  young 
bride,  and  little  Symbols,  who  clung  close 
to  the  wizard,  that  he  might  be  safe  while 
missing  nothing  of  the  performance.  Pres- 
ently came  the  sound  of  slipping  bolts,  then 
the  whole  fore  half  of  the  long,  narrow 
deck  opened  in  a  scalloped,  or  saw-tooth 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  175 

line  in  the  center,  the  two  forward  quarters 
sliding  back  and  down  inside  the  hull.  In 
less  time  than  it  can  be  told  a  huge  black 
thing  of  metal  that  looked  like  a  giant  gnat, 
pushed  up  through  the  opening  and  leaped 
into  the  air  like  a  kangaroo.  With  the 
leap  into  the  air  came  the  spreading  of  a 
pair  of  great,  bat-like  wings,  and  in  the 
same  instant  the  whole  frightful  thing  from 
nose  to  tail,  became  a  living  streak  of  bind- 
ing flame  and  was  gone! 

Nothing  like  the  speed  of  that  meteor- 
bird  is  possible  of  description.  In  an  in- 
finitesimal fraction  of  a  second,  and  with 
a  whistling  hiss  that  almost  paralyzed  the 
hearing,  it  was  far  out  over  the  rolling 
sea.  Up  it  shot  into  the  sky,  up  and  up. 
and  still  up!  Rocket  is  no  name  for  it. 
There  is  no  name  for  it!  Its  course  was 
marked  by  a  mile  of  crooked  lightning. 
Then  at  a  dizzy  height,  miles  above  the 
ocean  and  miles  to  the  westward  of  the 
ship,  it  righted,  toned  down  its  radiance 
to  a  mere  glow  of  red,  beat  its  wings  for  a 
few  moments  against  the  night  and  dived 
straight  down  like  a  falling  star  and 
plunged  head-on  into  the  black  billows  of 
Behring  Sea! 

Breathless  silence,  then  the  screams  of 
women  mingled  with  hoarse  outbursts  of 
terror  and  monstrous  oaths  from  the  toil- 
hardened  men  arose  from  the  appalled 
spectators  in  a  discordant  explosion  of 


176  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

heart-felt  fear.  Up  to  the  point  where  the 
infernal  thing  dived  for  the  water,  the 
Agitator  had  remained  wrapped  in  dark- 
ness; but  when  the  Comet  disappeared 
below  the  waves,  the  exact  spot  was  marked 
with  the  index  point  of  the  great  finder  ray, 
which  had  been  manipulated  from  the  ship 
with  the  unison  and  accuracy  of  a  trained 
marksman.  There  on  the  Agitator  stood 
the  pillar  of  radium,  and  from  its  topmost 
apex  and  hinged  like  a  jackknife  blade,  as 
it  were,  with  the  " blade"  rapidly  shutting 
up  into  the  radium  handle,  streamed  down 
the  angular  -finder— the  same  ray  that  had 
anticipated  the  wreck  of  the  Aurora,  and 
saved  the  lives  of  her  survivors  in  the 
Yukon  River.  This  done,  and  quicker  than 
thought,  the  pillar  was  cut  off,  as  the  " knife 
blade"  of  light  shut  up.  Then  up  from  the 
very  bowels  of  the  Deep  rose  the  Comet,  all 
her  lean  length  aflame.  Over  the  ship  it 
flew,  dived  again  into  the  water,  rose  and 
circled  and  cut  and  dodged,  like  the  hissing 
lash  of  a  whip  of  fire  in  the  hands  of  some 
mighty  giant,  madly  flogging  the  earth  and 
sky,  so  swiftly  and  terribly  did  it  cut  the 
Northern  night. 

Of  a  sudden  the  thing  came  from  some- 
where out  of  the  darkness  with  all  her 
lights  out,  and  there  she  stood,  flapping  her 
thin  wings  above  the  deck,  a  moment  later 
to  settle  down  on  her  supports,  finally  to 
disappear  into  the  maw  of  the  Agitator, 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  177 

from  whence  she  came.  Of  course  the 
crowd  clamored  for  a  look  at  close  range; 
but  there  was  a  long  programme,  and  in 
five  minutes  all  hands  were  seated  in  the 
long  auditorium  of  the  little  theater,  in- 
cluding the  good  priest  from  up  the  Sound. 

"My  remarks  will  be  brief,"  the  speaker 
was  saying.  "But  you  want  to  know  who 
we  are  and  why  we  have  come  among  you 
with  our  strange  ways  and  our  stranger 
ships  and  philosophies.  We  are  but  men. 
We  are  Socialists — agents  of  the  Co-opera- 
tive Commonwealth.  That  is  an  economic 
and  political  system  opposed  to  Capitalism, 
and  we  are  agitating  for  the  purpose  of 
enlightening  men  that  they  may  help 
Progress  to  dig  a  grave  for  that  rotting  old 
carcass.  We  are  presenting  you  with  this 
free  entertainment  on  our  ship  for  the  pur- 
pose of  showing  you  that  there  is  something 
better  in  this  world  than  frost  and  gold. 
We  are  come  to  bring  you  good  news.  In 
the  literature  that  you  will  receive  free  at 
the  door  in  passing  out,  you  will  find 
mapped  out  a  plan  whereby  man  may 
safely  live  among  his  fellows  without  the 
haunting  fear  of  being  eaten  by  his  more 
powerful  brother. 

Under  Socialism,  the  cost  of  living  will 
never  rise,  compelling  those  whose  scarred 
hands  have  created  all  the  wealth  of  the 
world  to  eat  garbage. 


178  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"I  read  about  a  fellow  here  in  this  north 
country  one  time,  who  had  to  eat  his  moc- 
casins when  game  got  scarce,  and  finally  he 
had  to  fall  back  on  his  leather  suspenders. 
I  bet  that  when  he  was  scabbing  the  job  on 
an  overtime  shift  trying  to  masticate  that 
dainty  repast,  he  thought  of  what  'Honest 
Abe'  said  about  men  eating  their  bread  in 
the  sweat  of  other  men's  faces.  Abe  might 
have  said  ' backs'  instead  of  ' faces,'  but  he 
didn't,  and  if  those  suspenders  were  good 
ones  the  rail  splitter  had  one  on  that  guy 
all  right! 

"But  game  won't  be  scarce  under  Social- 
ism— only  the  skin  game.  That's  the  only 
game  that  pays  under  Capitalism.  That's 
the  reason  capitalists  are  always  rich  and 
you  always  poor.  You  raise  all  the  skin 
and  then  hand  the  knife  over  to  the  capi- 
talist. He  takes  your  pelt  off  at  every 
skinning  time— every  election— and  then 
you  settle  right  down  to  hard  work  again 
growing  another  hide.  You  do  this 
every  four  years,  and  the  only  thing  you 
ever  kick  about  is  when  some  one  touches 
you  on  the  sore  spot  where  your  scalp  comes 
off. 

"There  is  a  certain  tree  growing  in 
South  Africa,  the  bark  of  which  is  a 
valuable  commercial  commodity.  Each  year 
the  corporations  dealing  in  this  commodity 
hire  the  natives  to  peel  the  bark  off,  and 
the  tree  immediately  proceeds  to  grow  a 
new  bark,  which  is  again  taken  off  the  next 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  179 

year.  Now  the  amount  of  bark  a  native  can 
peel  in  a  day  is  worth  to  the  company  one 
thousand  dollars;  and  for  performing;  this 
slight  daily  service  the  God-ordained  cor- 
poration generously  gives  the  "free  born" 
native  thirteen  cents. 

"Problem  No.  1.  Which  gets  the  worst 
skinning,  the  tree  or  the  native.  (Silence, 
protracted  and  almost  uncanny  silence.") 

"Problem  No.  2.  Which  do  you  think 
is  the  first  to  tumble  to  the  racket,  the  'free 
born'  native  or  the  tree.  (More  of  the 
same.) 

"I  will  tell  you  who  gets  the  worst  of  it, 
and  you  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  it 
is  the  'free  born'  native.  And  it  is  the 
tree  which  first  wakes  up,  for,  after  seven 
vears  of  this  kind  of  'thrift  and  industrv' 
it  refuses  to  grow  another  bark.  But  do 
vou  think  that  big,  husky,  'free  born,' 
living,  breathing  man  ever  gets  tired  of  giv- 
ing his  pretty  master  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  dollars  and  eighty-seven  cents 
everv  blessed  twenty-four  hours  for  the 
'inalienable  right'  to  slave  ten  hours  of  it 
for  thirteen  cents'?  Never!  No  'dividing 
up'  for  him!  To  abolish  his  master  and 
turn  the  whole  forest  over  to  himself  would 
be  'free  love'  and  the  'destruction  of  the 
home!'  They  have  worked  this  old  gag  on 
him  so  long  one  would  think  he  would  begin 
to  tumble;  but  then,  they  have  been  throw- 
ing the  same  hooks  into  you  fellows  for  lo, 


180  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

these  many  moons,  and  you  have  not 
awakened!" 

"Some  on  us  is  beginnin'  tue,  by  cat, 
and  don't  you  forget  it!"  drawled  out  an 
old  Forty-niner,  and  the  larger  half  of  the 
grizzled  miners  applauded  and  laughed. 

"Read  our  literature.  It  will  help  you 
out  of  poverty.  It  will  tell  you  how  that 
every  human  creature  shall  have  a  home. 
It  will  tell  you  how  that  every  love  shall 
find  a  lover's  mate;  how  that  every  life 
shall  be  secure  in  peace  and  plenty,  and 
how  that  happiness  shall  reign  throughout 
the  earth  for  all  mankind. 

"The  day  is  at  hand  when  you  people 
who  brave  the  Northland  won't  have  to  live 
out  all  your  lives  trying  to  get  warm.  It 
strikes  me  that  if  I  had  to  freeze  to  death 
I  would  hate  to  be  a  whole  life  time  doing 
it.  Down  on  the  Gulf  Coast,  where  I  have 
a  ranch,  the  only  thing  we  have  to  look  out 
for  is  wind.  It  blows  so  hard  down  there 
out  of  the  Gulf  that  the  farmers  have  to 
shingle  their  cows  to  keep  the  salt  water 
out  of  the  milk.  The  crops,  you  know,  all 
grow  on  a  slant  inland,  and  we  build  our 
houses  that  way,  on  a  bias,  so  the  chamber 
windows  will  be  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
so  the  children  won't  have  so  far  to  fall 
when  the  houses  blow  away,  you  see,"  per- 
sisted the  jesting  Joe. 

"Yaw,  haw,  haw!  Ah  don't  guess  you're 
overshootin'  a  whole  lot,  stranger.  Ah'm 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  181 

f'm  Corpus  Christ!  myself;  wow!"  bawled 
out  a  lank  individual  with  an  aquiline  nose 
and  a  wash  smile.  When  the  rest  of  the 
Texans  had  sufficiently  subsided,  the  fun 
flowed  on,  with  everybody  in  good  spirits 
and  perfectly  at  ease. 

"The  reason  I  am  telling  you  all  these 
things  is  just  to  show  you  the  difference 
between  the  place  where  I  sometimes  live, 
and  this  graveyard  where  you  people  come 
to  die  while  trying  to  get  a  little  something 
to  live  on.  You  miners  burn  holes  in  the 
earth  here  in  Alaska,  but  we  don't  do  that 
in  Texas.  The  sun  does  that  for  us.  But 
we  do  have  to  break  out  the  roads  every  day 
there,  the  same  as  you  do  here;  only  it's 
sand  and  alkali  instead  of  snow,  and  our 
forests  are  all  found  under  ground,  like 
"good"  Indians.  But  we  never  eat  our 
boots  in  Texas,  for  to  die  without  our  boots 
on  is  the  worst  disgrace  a  Texan  can 
suffer,"  he  said. 

The  assemblage  comprised  a  curious 
heterogeny  of  impatient  humanity,  whose 
applause  at  the  captain's  spicy  remarks  was 
loud  and  genuine.  There  were  both  men 
and  women,  yes,  and  many  little  children 
of  all  ages  and  sizes.  Men  with  bearded 
faces,  and  faces  red,  brown,  black  and  yel- 
low. Top  boots,  moccasins  and  stockinged 
feet.  Wool  suits,  skin  suits,  fur  suits  and 
calico;  and  some  wrapped  in  blankets. 

Then  on  came  the  pictures  1 


182  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

There  were  the  contrasted  rich  and  poor, 
to  show  the  wide  economic  and  social  gulf 
between  these  two  classes  of  capitalistic 
society.  These  colored  slides  were  made 
from  photographs  taken  in  St.  Louis  (the 
city  that  has  to  be  " boosted"),  where  dead 
horses  lay  for  weeks  in  the  streets,  both 
summer  and  winter;  and  where  dead  men 
lay  where  they  meet  death  until  they  freeze, 
between  the  rails  of  trolley  lines.  Here 
were  scenes  from  the  wretchedest  slums 
anywhere  to  be  found  in  the  "Land  of  the 
Free  and  Home  of  the  Brave!" 

First  came  a  West  End  mansion  costing 
$3,000,000,  and  owned  by  an  ex-gambler, 
now  a  corporation  judge. 

Out  in  front  stood  a  fine  $15,000  auto- 
mobile, and  happy  children  played  games 
on  a  beautifully  kept  lawn  among  the 
flowers  and  fountains,  and  all  around  were 
nice  graveled  walks  and  many  shade  trees. 
The  next  was  a  scene  from  the  East  Side 
slums  in  the  city  of  New  York.  A  tenement 
house  of  crumbling  red  brick,  one  of  a 
single  block  in  which  were  herded  twenty 
thousand  starved  souls.  Children  of  all 
ages,  and  in  great  numbers,  swarmed  the 
festering,  narrow  streets  like  rats;  some  in 
rags,  and  some  without  even  these  to  cover 
their  pitiful  nakedness.  Ash  barrels  and 
barrels  of  swill  littered  the  three-foot  side- 
walk. Into  these  swill  barrels  the  arms  of 
snotty  urchins  were  being  thrust  to  the 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  183 

elbows  for  food,  while  hundreds  were  madly 
fighting  each  other  for  a  grab  at  the  rotting 
garbage.  Dead  cats  and  dead  rats,  mingled 
with  heaps  of  accumulated  pollution, 
clogged  the  narrow  alleys,  and  from  every 
window  sweltered  bedraggled,  half-starved 
mothers  holding  bat-faced,  naked  babes 
which  looked  like  ventriloqual  figures,  save 
for  the  gaudy  raiment  of  which  they  had 
none. 

Following  this  frightful  scene  the  opera- 
tor showed  the  interior  of  another  mansion 
—the  home  of  a  society  queen! 

In  a  gorgeous  dining  room,  seated  at  a 
sumptuous  feast,  with  butler  and  many 
servants  standing  at  attention,  the  bawd- 
attired  mistress  of  a  screw-tail  terrier  fed 
that  ten-thousand-dollar  beast  sponge  cake 
and  cream  from  her  own  plate,  while  her 
shrimp  of  a  husband  dabbled  mincingly  in 
venial  acquiescence  over  his  squab  on  toast 
at  the  foot  of  the  table. 

In  the  wake  of  this  social  example  of 
twentieth  century  Gomorrahism  came  the 
vivid  picture  of  a  garret  abode  up  under 
the  skylight  in  a  squalid  hive  down  in  the 
Ghetto.  Lying  there  on  a  heap  of  soiled 
rags  in  the  corner,  gasped  the  emaciated 
wreck  of  a  starving  washerwoman  dying 
from  the  white  plague!  In  her  bony  arms 
was  clasped  the  nude  body  of  her  dead 
baby,  whose  thin,  white  lips  still  clung  to 
a  dry  .nipple  on  her  flabby  breast ! 


184  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

At  the  sight  of  these  horrors  of  Christian 
civilization  the  audience  of  honest  work- 
folk shuddered  and  groaned,  audibly  cursed 
and  tearfully  wept! 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  good  priest 
from  up  the  Sound  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
wildly  gesticulating,  demanded  that  these 
" scurrilous  and  defamatory"  pictures  be 
stopped.  Waving  his  arms  and  angrily 
shouting  from  his  seat  among  his  par- 
ishioners, he  screamed:  "You  are  a  gang 
of  devils  and  are  disturbing  the  public  con- 
fidence! The  government  ought  to  adopt 
positive  measures— if  need  be — to  have  you 
and  your  seditious  practices  suppressed." 
And  as  he  was  not  ejected  for  this  he  cour- 
ageously ranted  on:  "You're  a  menace  to 
the  foundations  of  society!  The  conditions 
are  as  they  are  because  it  is  God's  will! 
When  he  wants  them  changed  he  will  come 
in  his  wrath  amid  fire  and  thunder,  wield- 
ing a  two-edged  sword!  The  wicked  shall 
be  judged  and— 

"A — men!"  squeaked  a  wheezy  old  geezer 
of  perhaps  ninety.  Thus  reinforced,  the 
Godly  hierarch  victoriously  climaxed:  "The 
ways  of  the  Lord  are  not  of  our  inferior 
understanding!  Verily,  he  worketh  strange 
miracles  among  his  children,  that  they  may 
know  he  is  a  jealous  God,  whom  all  must 
both  love  and  fear!  Kemember  this  and 
bow  submissively  to  your  burdens,  arduous 


•The  bawd-attired  mistress  of  a  screw-tailed   terrier  fed  that 
$10,000  beast  sponge  cake  and  cream  from  her  own  plate." 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  185 

though  they  be  and  unending:  'The  poor 
ye  have  with  you  always.' 

"Dos  vos  no  lie,  mein  schguy  pilot 
friendt.  Ve  vill  haf  poor  deffls  mit  uz 
alvays  schoost  so  long  as  ve  let  you  schleek 
deffls  shdeer  oor  eyes  up  ud  ver  schtars  vile 
you  pig  oor  poggets  und  schdeal  oor  dusd, 
und  vile  der  vrrrrich  deffls  vrrrride  on  oor 
backs,"  clanged  out  a  fat  Dutchman,  stand- 
ing the  while  and  shaking  a  ham-like  fist 
in  the  bloated  face  of  the  well-nourished 
priest. 

Symbols  peaked  out  from  behind  the 
wings  and  grinned,  and  the  orchestra  struck 
up  the  Marseillaise,  and  from  the  boxes  on 
either  side  of  the  stage  went  up  a  subdued 
chuckle. 

The  operator,  at  a  signal  from  the  pro- 
fessor, started  the  motion  pictures,  and  if 
the  Romist  was  stirred  at  the  colored  slides, 
he  was  desperately  mad  now.  The  films  were 
ten  times  worse  than  the  stereopticon  views, 
and  showed  the  frightful  hells  of  child 
slavery  in  the  cities.  The  maimed  and  dead 
on  the  unspeakable  battlefield.  The  pov- 
erty-stricken miners  up  from  the  depths 
of  the  cold,  wet  earth.  And  finally,  a  long 
line  of  "chesty"  workingmen,  dressed  in 
their  Sunday  best,  each  smoking  an  "  elec- 
tion" cigar  and  voting  still  once  more  for 
the  very  system  by  which  they  are  per- 
petually, legally  and  systematically  robbed. 


186  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

But  the  holy  man  made  no  further  outbreak 
and  the  pictures  continued. 

"We  will  show  you  how  the  ill-fated 
Aurora  looked  ten  seconds  after  she  was 
blown  up,"  Captain  Joe  was  promising. 
"You  see,  the  optiscopo graph  is  not  only 
almost  everything  else,  but  it  is  also  a  de- 
vice for  the  taking  of  motion  pictures.  It 
is  always  loaded,  and  we  never  leave  it  for 
a  moment  without  an  operator."  All  the 
horrors  of  that  aw'ful  ride  to  death,  the 
fight  with  the  robbers  when  Jack  Philips 
choked  two  of  them  into  insensibility  after 
Jason  had  knocked  the  chief  overboard,  and 
then  the  rescue  was  run  off.  But  the  sur- 
prise of  all  came  when  the  exact  reproduc- 
tion of  the  recent  exhibition  of  the  Comet 
was  thrown  on  the  screen  of  the  little  float- 
ing theater.  Also  there  was  the  captain  of 
the  Terror,  pulling  for  dear  life  for  his 
government  ship,  while  the  water  leaped 
and  boiled  around  her,  just  as  it  had  all 
occurred  only  an  hour  since.  It  was  all  so 
wonderful  that  the  crowd  sat,  for  the  most 
part,  motionless  and  speechless  with  awe. 

As  the  astonished  and  delighted  natives 
filed  out  upon  the  deck,  each  was  presented 
with  the  classified  literature  of  the  new  De- 
mocracy together  with  a  copy  of  the  Appeal 
to  Reason,  a  red-hot  Socialist  paper  pub- 
lished at  Girard,  Kansas,  and  enjoying  the 
modest  circulation  of  a  million.  This  was 
the  paper  whose  editor,  Fred.  D.  Warren. 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  187 

had  been  sentenced  to  serve  six  months  in 
jail  and  to  pay  a  heavy  fine  for  two  specific 
reasons,  viz. :  First,  because  he  was  a  man, 
and  second,  because  he  dared  to  stand  face 
to  face  against  the  Beast  and  fight  for  the 
rights  of  the  disinherited  workers  of  the 
world,  hurling  defiance  in  the  teeth  of  the 
most  corrupt,  but  withal,  the  most  powerful 
government  on  earth. 

The  good  priest  from  up  the  Sound  was 
the  last  over  the  rail,  and  as  the  ray  went 
up  to  light  the  boats  ashore,  he  was  seen  to 
gesticulate  wildly  as  he  harangued  his 
rapidly  diminishing  followers,  and  what  he 
promised  to  have  done  to  the  Agitator  when 
she  should  arrive  at  Victoria,  as  recorded 
on  the  registers  of  her  wireless  telephones, 
may  be  more  lawfully  imagined  than  said! 


CHAPTER   VI. 

BEASON  AND  A  STONE. 

Through  midnight  murk  the  craven  coward  crept 
With  Judas  mien  to  shame  the  graveyard  ghoul ; 
Nor  warning  gave;  but  e'en  as  jackals  prowl, 
Or  dastard  Tarquin  slunk  to  couch  befoul 

And  ravage  virtue  while  the  household  slept, 
He  struck  with  unseen  hand  his  brother  down ! 
And  in  night's  shroud  of  gloom  and  Stygian  gown, 
Apostate  to  his  soul,  the  scurvy  lown 

Fled  stealthily,  the  while  a  people  wept! 

"You  tell  us  Socialism  is  against  the 
Church, "  the  speaker  was  saying.  "When 
cornered,  you  admit  that  you  know  nothing 
about  Socialism.  And  this  is  your  idea  of 
knowledge  and  philosophy!  But  I  say  to 
you  here  tonight,  that  Socialism  is  against 
everything  that  interferes  with  religious 
liberty. 

"Socialism  is  opposed  to  everything  that 
fetters  intelligence  with  the  shackles  of  su- 
perstition and  fear. 

"Socialism  is  at  war  with  ignorance, 
falsehood  and  slavery,  and  everything  that 
hangs  like  mill-stones  around  the  neck  of 
Progress. 

"Socialism  is  opposed  to  the  sword  and 
the  Gatling  gun.  It  is  opposed  to  war,  and 
the  spilling  of  blood.  It  strikes  at  poverty 
and  drunkenness,  and  the  hangman's  noose. 

(188) 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  189 

It  seeks  to  abolish  crime  and  the  causes  of 
crime.  It  will  do  away  with  profit  and  pull 
down  the  Golden  Calf  of  Mammon.  It  will 
make  child  slavery  impossible.  It  will  make 
poverty  impossible.  It  will  make  ignorance 
impossible,  and  it  will  banish  the  ghosts 
of  danger  and  insecurity  forever  from  hu- 
man society. 

"If  the  Church  is  in  favor  of  any  of 
these  it  is  against  Progress  and  humanity. 

"If  the  Church  is  in  favor  of  the  few 
rioting  in  idle  luxury  off  the  toil  of  the 
many  it  stands  for  an  exalted  parasitism 
on  the  one  hand  and  slavish  pauperism  on 
the  other. 

"If  the  Church  stands  for  an  idle  class  of 
gold-spurred  vermin  riding  on  the  backs  of 
the  masses  of  starving  poor,  it  is  at  war 
with  liberty.  It  is  against  peace  and  the 
security  of  the  home.  It  is  arrayed  in 
battle  royal  against  Progress  and  human 
justice,  and,  I  say,  if  such  be  true,  Social- 
ism will  hit  it  one  everlasting  swat ! 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you  hypocrites  who 
parrot  the  sayings  of  the  Galilean.  I  am 
ashamed  of  my  brother  and  my  sister  who 
can  read  the  story  of  one  starving  newsboy 
and  excuse  their  complicity  in  the  crime  by 
blaming  the  outrage  onto  God.  It  may  be 
God's  will  that  there  are  ten  millions  of 
hungry  half-naked  children  in  these  glorious 
United  States  tonight;  but  if  it  is,  then  I 


190  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

am  proud  to  announce  that  I  deny  and  re- 
pudiate that  kind  of  a  god. 

"The  god  you  worship  and  the  church 
you  are  afraid  Socialism  will  pull  down, 
may  stand  for  seven  millions  of  starving 
unemployed  workingmen  continually  tramp- 
ing the  streets  of  the  great  cities  under  the 
starry  folds  of  Old  Glory ;  but  the  god  with 
whom  Socialists  are  chummy  doesn't  spell 
his  name  with  the  same  number  of  letters. 
The  god  of  Socialism  is  the  God  of 
Humanity. 

"  Socialism  will  not  interfere  with  any 
man's  religion.  It  will  not  demand  that  a 
man  be  soused  in  ice-water  to  the  danger 
of  his  life  that  his  soul  may  legally  under- 
take to  sprout  a  crop  of  pin-feathers.  But 
it  will  make  it  intellectually  possible  for 
him  to  get  next  to  the  raw  deal  that  is  being 
pulled  off  on  him,  and  then  if  he  still  pre- 
fers the  deception  to  what  he  knows  to  be 
the  truth,  why,  no  one  will  be  to  blame  but 
himself. 

"Socialism  will  not  oppose  any  man's 
faith.  He  may  believe  what  he  pleases  so 
long  as  he  is  satisfied  to  enslave  only  him- 
self with  such  belief.  Pretty  much  all  the 
Socialists  with  whom  I  am  accquainted  are 
slow  to  make  believe  a  thing  they  have 
found  to  be  a  lie.  This  may  seem  like  in- 
sanity to  the  orthodox  mind;  but  then,  the 
orthodox  mind  is  to  progress  what  lead  is 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  191 

to  a  life-preserver.    It  is  belief,  belief,  and 
still  more  belief! 

"  Belief  has  been  the  miasma  of  deca- 
dence polluting  the  social  atmosphere  for 
forty  thousand  years.  Socialists  seek  not 
belief  but  knowledge!  Belief  is  uncertainty, 
knowledge  is  reality.  If  I  know  a  thing 
I  do  not  have  to  believe  it.  It  has  then 
become  fact  and  requires  not  belief,  but 
knowledge  to  sustain  it. 

"A  theory  may  look  like  truth,  but  no 
scientist  will  accept  it  as  such  without  a 
thorough  scientific  investigation  and  analyt- 
ical test;  if  it  stands  the  test  of  a  scientific 
analysis,  it  becomes  known  and  classified, 
and  is  a  reality.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  fails  to  make  good  under  the  searching 
light  of  reason,  it  will  be  relegated  to  ob- 
livion by  thinking  people,  and  only  the  faith 
of  fools  will  be  pinned  to  its  shoddy  sham. 

"The  science  of  the  future  will  be  the 
science  of  Self.  And  that  which  will  not 
stand  the  test  of  a  scientific  analysis  will 
have  to  go. 

"To  believe  a  thing  is  to  doubt  it.  To; 
know  a  thing  is  to  realize  it.V  If  we  did 
first  doubt  it  we  would  not  and  could  not 
believe  it.  Belief  is  one  individual's  guess 
plagiarized  by  another  individual  who 
hadn't  enough  brains  to  make  a  good, 
healthy  guess  for  himself. 

"Of  all  the  venial,  garrot-eyed  things 
that  crawl  on  belly  through  Capitalism's 


192  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

slimy  social  drain®,  the  unblushing  "saint" 
who  deceives  an  innocent  child  into  believ- 
ing a  malevolent  lie  is  the  most  despicable 
of  all  the  long  list  of  sneak- thieves, -snatch- 
baggers  and  false  friends  that  ever  attached 
feed  end  to  the  economic  larder  of  our 
social  structure.  He  is  literally  a  social 
barvel !  It  is  said  that  all  things  have  their 
double.  If  this  be  true,  and  if  this  con- 
scienceless charlatan  and  depraved  moral 
papsucker  can  be  matched  anywhere  among 
the  leeches,  perverted  pimps  and  reaction- 
ary deadwood  that  clutters  the  path  of 
Progress,  I  can  not  think  where,  unless  it 
be  with  the  brutal  father  who  violates  the 
virginity  of  his  own  daughter;  the  un- 
natural mother  who  deserts  her  helpless 
offspring,  or  the  savage  beast  that  devours 
its  first-born  young. 

' '  But,  under  Socialism,  if  a  man  wants  to 
believe  he  is  a  jackass  he  shall  have  that 
privilege,  and  no  one  will  make  himself 
ridiculous  by  criticizing  the  harmless  bray- 
ings  of  an  honest  ass. 

"If  you  want  to  believe  you  are  the  rein- 
carnated spirit  of  a  devil-fish  you  will  be 
protected  in  that  right,  so  long  as  you  don't 
try  to  get  some  of  the  same  superstitious 
soup  into  me,  otherwise  you  will  quickly  be 
shown  to  a  padded  cell  as  a  means  of  public 
safety. 

"If  you  want  to  imagine  that  you  are 
better  than  I  am,  and  that  you  are  bound 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  193 

to  grow  a  pair  of  immaculate  wings  while  1 
am  to  be  doomed,  dammed  and  devoured  in 
red-hot  brimstone,  it  won't  get  you  very 
far  into  trouble  so  long  as  you  keep  your 
feet  out  of  my  trough.  But  if  you  insist 
on  me  agreeing  with  you  before  I  could 
have  a  job  of  useful  work,  I  shall  see  to  it 
that  you  are  straightway  apprehended  and 
suppressed  as  a  public  nuisance. 

"Under  Socialism  a  man  may  know  a 
great  deal  provided  he  possesses  the  mental 
capacity  for  thought;  if  not,  then  he  may 
still  believe  a  great  deal!  He  may  believe 
there  is  a  god  and  six  devils  on  every  street 
corner.  He  may  believe  that  souls  are 
feathered  things,  and  that  God  don't  con- 
sider the  body  worth  a  damn!  If  you  want 
to  believe  there  is  a  (rod  who  demands  that 
you  both  fear  and  love  him,  you  may  under- 
take the  paradoxical  gymnastics  of  such  a 
mental  performance,  and  contort  your  cer- 
ebral machinery  until  the  safety  valve  blows 
out.  You  may  believe  there  is  a  heaven  and 
a  hell,  or  as  many  as  you  like;  and  if  you 
believe  you  are  going  to  Heaven  and  want 
to  go  there,  you  may  go  to  Heaven  a.nd  take 
your  trunk,  or  you  may  go  to  Hell  if  you 
want  to.  But  you  won't  have  any  right  to 
take  me  with  you  if  I  am  satisfied  to  stay 
here." 

Ashworth  was  a  small  place,  a  manu- 
facturing town  built  on  a  small  stream 
among  the  hills.  There  were  saw  mills  and 


194  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

tanneries  and  a  glove  factory  there.  Also 
there  were  cotton  mills,  hosiery  mills,  a 
grist  mill  and  a  woolen  mill;  and  it  was  in 
this  latter  roaring  slave  pen  that  Jason 
Sands  had  worked  eleven  hours  a  day  when 
a  mere  lad,  "twisting  in"  warp  for  twenty- 
seven  looms.  He  had  not  been  there  very 
long  when  he  invented  a  new  process,  which 
process  was  promptly  stolen  from  him.  And 
then  he  was  discharged  for  having  the 
audacity  to  protest.  It  was  said  to  be  a 
"hot"  town !  That  is  to  say,  it  encompassed 
more  crime,  vice  and  drunkenness  to  the 
square  inch  than  other  towns  of  its  size 
which  were  considered  less  "hot." 

Canadian-French  were  given  the  prefer- 
ence over  the  natives  in  the  mills,  for,  hav- 
ing no  ideas  of  free  government,  they  could 
be  depended  upon  to  vote  as  told  and  they 
would  not  join  a  union.  Moreover,  they 
would  work  for  anything  offered  them  and 
no  thought  of  dissatisfaction  ever  crept 
into  their  skulls;  for  they  were,  every 
mother's  son  of  them,  good  and  devout 
Catholics. 

And  so,  while  the  soil  was  fertile  enough, 
it  was  so  choked  with  inherited  ignorance 
and  intellectual  weeds  that  Socialism  had 
taken  root  very  slowly,  and  then  only  after 
a  long  and  tedious  uphill  propaganda  by  a 
handful  of  courageous  comrades.  The  lec- 
ture which  Leland  Tannerhill  had  come  to 
attend  was  the  first  of  its  kind  ever  ad- 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  195 

vertised  in  the  community,  and  the  task  our 
friend  from  the  Southwest  was  up  against 
was  not  an  envious  one. 

"I  opened  this  discourse  with  the  state- 
ment that  Socialism  is  an  economic  and 
political  question,"  the  big  Texan  resumed, 
"and  you  leap  to  your  feet  and  demand  to 
know  what  the  Socialist  position  is  con- 
cerning religion.  Did  you  ever  ask  any  of 
the  bell-weathered  flock  of  the  Republican 
or  Democrat  parties  a  question  like  that? 
No!  That  question  has  never  been  trotted 
out  for  the  purpose  of  combating  the  poli- 
tics of  any  but  the  Socialist.  You  know 
better  than  to  interrogate  any  of  the  old 
partyites  on  this  ticklish  point.  You  know, 
only  too  well,  their  position  on  the  Church. 
They  stand  for  it,  and  they  stand  on  itl 
And  when  its  morals  become  too  slippery 
for  firm  footing,  as  is  frequently  the  case, 
they  proceed  in  self -protection  to  clap  on 
the  lid  and  sit  on  it. 

"The  Church  has  always  been  found  on 
the  side  of  Capitalism;  and  Capitalism  has 
ever  been  found  on  the  backs  of  the 
workers. 

"It  is  none  of  your  business  what  I  be- 
lieve regarding  religion.  That  is  my  own 
private  affair.  If  your  church  is  what  is 
claimed  for  it,  i.  e.,  'builded  on  the  solid 
rock  of  righteousness, '  it  is  in  no  fear  from 
evil  influences— surely  not  from  the  peace- 
ful Brotherhood  of  Man.  'The  works  of  a 


196  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

just  God  cannot  be  destroyed.'  It  is  only 
the  sham  that  fears  the  light  of  reason. 
Does  your  church  fear  the  light?  If  you 
want  to  enrage  a  beast  show  it  red.  If  you 
would  discomfort  a  fakir  uncover  his  fraud. 
If  you  wish  to  frighten  a  murderer  let  him 
see  blood— LOOK  AT  YOUR  HANDS!" 

The  gentleman  who  had  croaked  out  the 
old  familiar  "Socialism  will  destroy  re- 
ligion" bug,  was  seated  away  back  in  the 
rear  of  the  hall  where  the  light  was  dim; 
but  Stanley  could  see  that  he  wore  a  seedy 
old  broadcloth  coat  of  the  ancient  orthodox 
country  preacher  cut,  that  he  was  old,  and 
all  hunched  up  in  a  heap  like  a  hermit  crab 
in  a  hank  of  wet  kelp.  With  his  last  re- 
mark the  speaker  had  reached  far  out  over 
the  audience  to  shake  an  accusing  finger  at 
him,  and  the  crowd,  which  up  to  this  point 
had  remained  deathly  still,  broke  out  in  ap- 
plause and  every  one  turned  to  see  what 
the  "Old  Scorpion,"  as  he  was  called,  would 
reply. 

For  forty  years  the  old  Shylock  had  kept 
a  country  store  at  Merrydeath  Crossroads, 
and  it  was  while  engaged  in  the  traffic  of 
human  necessities  that  he  had  acquired  the 
additional  nom  de  nique  of  "Margin  Bead- 
eye."  This  was  for  the  double  reason  that 
first,  his  little  round  eyes  retired  far  up 
near  the  timber  line  of  his  rennet-bag  face, 
where  they  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
two  black  beads  just  showing  through  their 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  197 

pus-dripping  lids.  And  secondly,  because 
lie  was  always  whining  to  his  customers 
that  there  was  no  " margin"  (of  profit)  on 
the  goods  be  sold  them  on  credit  at  five 
times  their  actual  value.  The  " scorpion" 
part  was  of  more  recent  origin,  and  had 
been  honestly  earned  by  him  in  payment  for 
his  hatred  of  children  and  the  eagerness 
with  which  he  would  "sting"  every  one 
with  insult  and  abuse  with  whom  he  did 
not  agree.  Nevertheless,  he  was  the  main 
pillar  of  the  richest  church  in  the  town, 
and  while  he  still  wore  the  same  old 
clerical  coat  for  best  that  he  appeared 
in  on  the  first  Sunday  of  his  arrival 
from— God  only  knows  where— he  was  re- 
puted to  be  the  owner  of  more  rents  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  community  put  together. 
But  the  eminently  respectable  gentleman- 
retired,  had  evidently  had  enough,  for  he 
did  not  reply.  On  the  other  hand,  he  sought 
the  first  opportunity  when  the  house  was 
engaged  in  an  outburst  of  enthusiasm,  to 
slink  out  into  the  autumn  night. 

Stanley  Lark  was  at  his  best.  He  had 
heard  the  pathetic  story  of  Tannerhill  that 
afternoon,  and  if  ever  orator  were  in- 
spired it  was  he.  He  drew  a  parallel  of 
the  Sands-Tann'erhill  case,  staging  it  in  a 
western  town  and  using  no  names,  but  the 
audience  understood ;  and  as  his  voice  rang 
out  clear  and  powerful  with  the  terrible  in- 
dictment of  the  capitalist  system,  which 


198  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

system  he  showed  to  be  the  cause  of  those 
two  broken  homes,  his  audience  swayed  and 
reeled  in  sympathy  with  his  emotional  elo- 
quence, and  many  a  tear  of  pity  and  shame 
was  seen  to  fall  as  they  gazed  on  the  silvery 
locks  of  the  last  of  the  Tannerhills  and 
realized  the  sorrow  and  hopelessness  of  his 
empty  years. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  true  story 
of  the  travels  and  adventures  of  a  quart 
of  milk,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  history  of 
all  milk  born  in  the  country  that  gets 
canned  and  finds  its  way  into  the  big  cities. 
You  farmers  milk  it  from  the  cow  fresh 
and  pure.  You  sell  it  here  delivered  at 
the  railroad  station  for  three  cents  a  quart. 
It  goes  to  Boston  on  the  train,  is  separated 
from  its  cream,  dumped  into  a  machine  and 
'raised'  to  two  quarts,  drugged  with  soda, 
formaldehyde— a  deadly  poison— "  weight- 
ed,' colored  and  thinned  with  dirty  water, 
and  then  sold  for  twenty  cents  to  working 
people.  But  that  is  only  a  part  of  its  his- 
tory. It  has  now  only  just  started  on  its 
deadly  career.  A  hollow-eyed  wife  and 
mother  finds  it  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing at  the  foot  of  a  pair  of  rickety  back- 
stairs at  the  door  of  the  rented  shack.  John 
uses  two  teaspoonfuls  in  his  cup  of  coffee. 
Those  two  spoonfuls  of  'milk'  contain  sev- 
enty millions  of  deadly  disease  germs.  And 
John  has  stomach  trouble!  Another  man 


THE  TORCH  OF  REASON.  199 

gets  John's  job,  and  the  coffin  trust  gets 
John. 

"But  even  that  isn't  all.  In  a  crib  at  the 
bedside,  the  blue,  birdlike  hands  of  an  in- 
fant—John's and  Mary's— clutch  feebly  at 
the  rubber  nipple  of  a  nursing-bottle.  And 
then  it  cries  faintly,  but  with  as  much 
strength  as  it  possesses,  and  Mary  conies 
to  bring  some  of  the  thin,  blue  stuff,  some 
of  which  ten  days  ago  was  being  milked 
from  a  real  cow  on  a  New  Hampshire  farm. 
The  hungry  babe  greedily  devours  the  taxi- 
dermized  fluid,  and  with  each  swallow  that 
the  tiny  throat  takes  in,  goes  thirty  mil- 
lions of  bacteria  along  with  the  rest  of 
the  deadly  dope.  This  is  murder!  But  it 
is  Capitalism— the  profit  system— and  you 
voted  for  that  system,  and  when  you  voted 
for  that  system  you  became  the  accomplice 
in  crime,  aiding  and  abetting  in  the  annual 
murder  of  three  millions  five  hundred 
thousand  innocent  babes  in  these  United 
States  of  America,  through  the  sale  of  im- 
pure milk  alone.  What  will  your  children 
think  of  their  fathers  who  assisted  in  the 
1  slaughter  of  the  innocents?' 

"In  a  few  years  Socialism  will  be  here 
to  change  all  this,  and  then  what  shall  be 
said  of  men  who  voted  for  and  placed  the 
seal  of  license  and  respectability  upon  every 
crime  known  to  mankind  rather  than  '  shift 
their  politics!' 


200  THE  TORCH  OF  REASON. 

"I  know  a  man  out  west  on  an  Arkansas 
ranch  who  is  afraid  that  Socialism  will 
compel  him  to  *  divide  up ! '  He  told  me  so. 
There  are  a  lot  of  people  haunted  with  the 
same  old  familiar  ghost.  He  showed  me 
over  the  farm,  and  presently  we  came  to 
a  queer-looking  iron  machine,  all  painted 
and  striped  red  and  blue.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful thing,  and  at  first  sight  I  thought  it 
was  some  kind  of  a  musical  instrument. 
'That  is  a  separator,'  he  explained.  'It 
separates  the  cream  from  the  blue  milk.' 
Why  do  you  separate  it?  I  asked.  'O,  the 
cream  goes  to  Galveston  and  is  sold  to  the 
rich,'  he  answered.  And  the  blue  milk?  1 
inquired.  'That  stuff,'  said  he,  jerking  his 
thumb  in  the  direction  of  a  large  tank  of 
it,  'that  ain't  fit  for  sellin',  I  don't  guess; 
we  eats  that  ourselves.'  How  much  did 
you  pay  for  that  machine?  I  next  quizzed. 
'Three  hundred  dollars,'  was  the  answer. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  stared  at  that  man ; 
and  while  he  did  not  look  it,  I  realized  that 
I  had  located  a  genuine,  and  very  rare  liv- 
ing specimen  of  the  now  almost  extinct 
Anencephalious  Cebine. 

"Here  was  a  man  owning  a  splendid 
farm  of  as  fertile  soil  as  ever  lay  out  of 
doors,  Who  had  given  Capitalism  three  hun- 
dred dollars  for  a  machine  guaranteed  to 
separate  him  from  the  best  his  farm  pro- 
duced, the  cream,  as  it  were,  while  he  and 
his  wife  and  little  ones  had  to  skimp  along 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  201 

on  the  blue  milk!  And  this  man,  who  as- 
sured me  he  was  a  good  Democrat,  would 
not  vote  for  Socialism  for  fear  he  would 
have  to  i divide  up!'  No  wonder  he  was  a 
Democrat!  Any  one  who  knows  as  much 
as  that  man  knows  can  be  a  good  Demo- 
crat !  If  he  hadn't  of  known  any  more  than 
to  want  that  good  cream  for  himself  and 
family,  he  would  have  been  fool  enough 
to  be  a  Socialist.  But  he'll  die  that  way. 
The  great  and  wise  die  young!  He  con- 
vinced me  that  he  was  killing  himself  with 
work,  creating  cream  for  his  masters  and 
starving  to  death  the  while  amid  plenty  on 
a  diet  of  whey. 

"  According  to  the  figures  of  the  United 
States  Statisticians  on  Agruculture,  a  forty- 
acre  farm  in  Arkansas  will  raise  enough 
per  annum  to  keep  in  first  class  condition 
three  hundred  healthy  men.  This  man 
owned  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  the 
best  land  in  the  state.  He  had  worked  it 
early  and  late  for  thirty  years  and  was 
poor.  In  the  thirty  years,  according  to  the 
aforesaid  reliable  statistics,  he  had  pro- 
duced enough  with  his  labor,  conservatively 
speaking,  to  keep  him  comfortably  for 
three  thousand  and  three  hundred  years  in 
abundance.  And  still  this  man  didn't  know 
enough  to  know  that  he  was  being  skinned. 
Any  person  who  knows  as  much  as  he  does 
knows  almost  enough  to  be  a  Republican! 
Some  of  you  people  may  know  this  mental 


202  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

prodigy,  his  name  is  E.  Z.  Mark,  and  speci- 
mens of  his  kind  may  still  be  found 
throughout  the  United  States,  especially  in 
the  rural  districts." 

It  was  a  good  story,  and  well  told;  and  it 
was  evident  that  the  speaker  from  Texas 
knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  He  was 
making  a  decided  hit  with  the  farmers  in 
his  audience. 

Leland  was  all  attention.  He  liked 
Stanley  Lark,  and  knew  he  was  a  good  man. 
Also  he  knew  he  was  speaking  the  truth, 
and  he  resolved  right  then  and  there  to 
cast  his  lot  with  the  Socialists  and  vote 
with  them  from  now  on.  Life  had  sud- 
denly assumed  a  new  aspect.  There  was 
hope  after  all.  These  Socialists  were  dif- 
ferent. They  were  not  politicians,  they 
were  idealists— philosophers.  In,  and  under 
and  beyond  their  politics  there  was  a 
greater  thing  than  politics.  There  was  a 
goal,  which  goal  was  an  Idealism.  They 
were  a  political  party,  but  the  political  part 
was  simply  the  legal  machinery  to  be  oper- 
ated for  the  purpose  of  constructing  execu- 
tive policies,  and  the  ballot  was  the  legal 
instrument  for  capturing  the  powers  of 
government  from  the  other  political  par- 
ties, which  parties  simply  changed  works  ru 
the  process  of  "separating"  the  wealth 
from  the  workers.  The  political  party, 
then,  was  but  a  means— a  conveyance— by 
which  the  millions  of  disinherited  workers 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  203 

were  to  ride  to  victory  in  the  possession 
of  the  reins  of  government,  and  come  into 
their  own.  He  had  wondered  how  they 
were  going  to  do  it,  and  now  here  was  the 
secret.  The  speaker  had  made  it  all  clear 
on  that  point  when  he  said:  "You  desire 
to  know  'how  we  are  to  do  it!'  The  ques- 
tion is  a  remarkable  one,  and  I  must  confess 
that  I  am  astounded.  After  voting,  all  your 
lives,  for  political  parties,  you  have  to  come 
to  a  Socialist  to  inquire  how  political  par- 
ties get  into  power!" 

The  wit  who  had  propounded  this  ar- 
chaic, and  time-worn  socraticism,  was  the 
shyster  lawyer,  Jibbs.  The  speaker  had 
gone  to  some  length  by  way  of  making  the 
deep,  dark  secret  clear  to  his  musty,  be- 
sodden  brain,  and  when  he  had  finished 
there  was  no  mistaking  his  meaning.  "I 
will  tell  you  how  we  are  going  to  try  to  do 
it,"  he  said,  "and  unless  we  are  prevented 
by  fraud,  we  will  eventually  win  by  this 
peaceful  method.  We  will  establish  the  Co- 
operative Commonwealth  only  after  a  ma- 
jority of  citizens  have  expressed  their  de- 
sire for  Socialism  through  having  voted 
the  Socialist  ticket  at  the  ballot  box. 

"The  Socialist  party  is  a  regularly  or- 
ganized political  party  with  local  head- 
quarters in  every  city  and  town  in  the 
country.  The  name  of  our  party  is  in- 
scribed on  the  national  ballot  beside  that  of 
the  Republicans  and  Democrats.  Every 


204  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

voter  who  votes,  sees  our  name  before  him, 
and  he  can  vote  as  easily  for  Eugene  V. 
Debs,  as  he  can  for  continuous  perf ormanoe 
Bill  Bryan,  Rafty  Taftus,  or  Titmouse 
Ted,  the  man  who  thinks  he  is  the  rein- 
carnated Caesar,  and  who  believes  he  is 
destined  to  be  Emperor  I.  of  America.  But 
Socialism  appeals  to  intelligence,  and  no 
one  will  vote  the  Socialist  ticket  who  is  too 
ignorant  to  comprehend  the  principles  of 
the  philosophy  of  Socialism.  When  these 
principles  are  understood  by  the  voters  they 
become  Socialists.  When  once  a  man  be- 
comes a  Socialist,  he  will  vote  the  Socialist 
ticket,  first,  last,  and  all  the  time  ever  after, 
and  never  any  other. 

"You  don't  have  to  know  very  much  to 
be  a  Socialist.  You  don't  have  to  know 
who  invented  the  hobble  skirt  for  women, 
nor  why  Jeffries  chewed  gum  at  Reno. 
Neither  is  it  necessary  that  you  post  up  on 
the  science  of  Astronomy  as  practiced  by 
the  tree  people  ten  million  years  ago.  But 
you  must  know  that  you  are  being  robbed 
and  that  you  want  to  stop  the  robbery. 
You  will  surely  have  to  pass  that  important 
examination,  and  wrhen  you  have  mastered 
political  and  social  economy  to  that  extent, 
you  will  know  enough  to  vote  with  the 
Socialists  and  your  ultimate  graduation  is 
as  certain  as  that  capitalist  politicians  will 
steal.  If  you  feel  that  you  cannot  qualify 
under  these  circumstances,  stick  to  the 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  205 

Republicans  and  Democrats  until  you  arc 
sucked  dry;  for  all  you  have  to  know  to 
be  a  good  partisian  of  either  of  these  is: 
you  must  knoiv  your  master's  voice! 

"When  more  Republicans  and  Democrats 
vote  the  Republican  ticket  than  vote  the 
Democratic  ticket,  the  Republicans  win, 
and  go  into  power  in  the  government. 
When  more  Democrats  and  Republicans 
vote  the  Democratic  ticket  than  the  Repub- 
lican ticket,  the  Democrats  win,  and  go  into 
power.  When  more  voters  learn  what  So- 
cialism means  than  vote  both  the  Repub- 
lican and  Democratic  tickets  the  working 
class  will  win  and  go  into  power  in  the 
government,  and  on  that  day  will  end  the 
history  of  political  corruption,  otherwise 
known  as  graft. 

"The  reason  the  Socialists  will  have  to 
have  more  votes  to  win  than  both  the  other 
parties  named,  is,  that  they  are  both  one 
in  interest,  and  will  fuse  at  the  last  ditch 
to  beat  their  common  foe— the  Socialist 
Party.  They  are  both  capitalist  parties, 
the  right  and  left  wings  of  the  same  old 
bird  of  prey — Capitalism.  The  only  reason 
for  their  dual  existence  is  that,  they  must 
have  some  sensational  means  of  fooling  you 
at  each  election,  and  in  order  to  keep  the 
wool  pulled  over  your  eyes  so  that  you  can- 
not see  with  which  hand  they  pick  your 
pocket.  They  maintain  a  sham  political 
fight,  knowing  that  you  will  be  too  deeply 


206  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

interested  in  watching  the  fun  and  choos- 
ing imaginary  sides  to  think  of  building  up 
a  party  of  your  own.  Besides,  at  each  elec- 
tion they  pull  all  the  wool  off  your  backs, 
and,  you  know,  you  must  have  time  for  it 
to  grow  out  again,  so  as  to  be  in  trim  for 
another  plucking." 

Next  he  told  them  of  governments,  and 
why  they  were  instituted  among  men.  "You 
all  know  the  popular  theory,"  he  said, 
"that  all  governments  are  for  the  purpose 
of  'securing  the  greatest  good  to  the  great- 
est number/  'the  inalienable  rights  of  life, 
liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness,'  and 
all  that  fine-sounding  bunk?  We've  been 
fed  on  that  old  warmed-over  handout  until 
it  reminds  me  of  the  story  of  the  city  guy 
who  went  to  the  country  to  engage  in  the 
poultry  business.  Of  course  he  had  never 
seen  a  hen,  but  that  didn't  make  any  dif- 
ference. Well,  he  was  getting  along  all 
right  until  the  village  fool  paid  him  a  visit 
one  day  and  advised  him  to  mix  sawdust 
with  the  cornmeal  for  feed  to  cut  expenses. 
Then  the  village  fool  told  a  neighbor  and 
the  neighbor  called  and  volunteered  the 
same  economic  bill  of  fare.  Also  the  neigh- 
bor told  another  neighbor,  and  the  other 
neighbor  called  on  the  new  hen  man  and 
parroted  the  same  dope,  told  another 
neighbor,  and  so  on  until  the  excounter 
jumper  hen  man  laid  in  a  goodly  supply 
of  sawdust  from  the  mill  up  the  brook  and 


THE   TORCH    OF   REASON.  207 

began  feeding  his  flock  the  new  diet,  with 
the  result  that,  all  the  chickens  hatched  had 
wooden  legs. 

"Now  that's  exactly  what  has  happened 
to  you.  Your  fathers  and  mothers  were 
slaves,  you  were  conceived  on  an  empty 
stomach,  nurtured  on  a  diet  of  political 
whey,  with  the  result,  not  that  you  have 
wooden  legs,  but  wooden  heads." 

Stanley  was  noted  for  his  good  stories, 
and  for  the  good-natured  sarcasm  with 
which  they  were  told.  Everybody  laughed 
at  this  one,  except  those  of  the  grim  Re- 
publican ring  and  a  puny  gentleman  with 
feminine  shoulders  and  a  receding  chin, 
and  wearing  a  collar  that  buttoned  in  the 
back.  These  soft-palmers  seemed  to  grow 
shorter  in  their  seats,  and  it  could  be  seen 
that  hatred,  bitter  and  venene  hatred, 
gleamed  from  beneath  their  shadowy  brows. 

"We  are  regularly  fed  and  fattened  on 
this  cerebral  embalming  fluid  by  your  lying 
old-party  press,  just  prior  to  each  annual 
killing  at  the  polls.  Moreover,  the  high- 
salaried  old-party  spellbinders  periodically 
claw  space  and  steer  your  eyes  on  the  'blue 
dome  of  high  Heaven,'  holding  up  first  the 
'fool  dinner  pail,'  then  the  'tariff'  bug,  and 
lastly,  when  all  others  fail,  the  bloody  shirt 
of  war. 

"Shame  on  you  workingmen!  You  fall 
for  each  and  every  one  of  these  old  empty 
husks,  year  after  year,  while  prices  go  up 


208  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

and  your  income  goes  down;  and  you 
march  to  the  mournful  notes  of  the  muted 
funeral  dirge  to  lay  away  your  worn  out 
dear  ones  over  yonder  on  the  hill  among 
the  white  stones  and  the  weeping  willows. 

"But  you  will  not  become  Socialists,  for 
to  be  a  Socialist,  from  your  point  of  reason- 
ing, is  to  be  a  'turncoat!'  Now  you  have 
been  educated  to  believe  that  a  turncoat 
was  about  the  most  disloyal  and  traitorous 
slave  in  the  whole  yoked  caravan  of  God- 
fearing, hocus-pocus  worshiping  citizenry. 
Your  father  on  his  deathbed  told  you  that 
a  i turncoat'  was  a  political  backslider  who 
had  sunk  so  low  in  the  scale  of  stand-pat- 
dom  as  to  actually  dare  to  change  masters! 
Such  were  treason  indeed! 

"When  your  Republican  master  has  be- 
come expert  with  the  political  knife  in 
taking  your  economic  hide  off,  why  take 
the  knife  away  from  him  and  give  it  to  the 
Democratic  master?  If  I  have  to  be 
skinned,  I'd  rather  have  the  job  done  by 
an  expert  than  a  bungler  whose  hand  is 
out  and  all  atremble  with  stage-fright. 

"The  Socialist  disclaims  the  honor  of 
being  a  'turncoat.'  He  is  one  who,  seeing 
the  old  coat  worn  threadbare,  discovers  the 
thing  to  be  nothing  but  shoddy  anyhow,  and 
so,  instead  of  'turning'  the  old  coat  for 
another  threadbare  wearing  on  the  wrong 
side,  flings  the  thing  away  bodily,  and  de- 
mands a  new  garment  out  of  whole  cloth. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  209 

He  is  not  a  'turncoat/  but  a  rebel  slave, 
awakened  from  his  long  cataleptic  inertia 
to  demand  that  a  stop  be  put  to  the  skin- 
ning. He  is  no  longer  satisfied  to  be  lulled 
to  sleep  for  the  purpose  of  being  legally 
robbed.  The  rags  of  a  political  coat 
fashioned  to  fit  his  dead  progenitors  do  not 
hang  well  on  his  broad  shoulders.  The 
picture-hero,  'Toothy  Ted,'  glorifies  a  'pros- 
perity for  the  man  with  patches  on  his 
pants!'  Patches  are  not  good  enough  for 
Socialists.  I  am  a  Socialist,  not  because  I 
am  a  '  turncoat, '  nor  because  I  want  patches 
on  my  pants;  but  because  I  want  a  whole 
new  suit  of  political  clothes,  made  by  the 
scientific  economic  tailors  of  our  twentieth 
century  needs,  and  not  the  ancient  reform 
patches  of  dead  men  who  lived  in  the  un- 
citied  and  uncultured  days  of  hand  tools 
and  hand  methods. 

"Socialists  are  horrified  at  war  and  the 
prospects  of  war,  terming  it  murder  and  a 
relic  of  barbarism.  But  these  old  boiler- 
plate spielers — these  'saviors'  of  the  nation 
—grow  purple  in  the  face  while  'viewing 
with  alarm'  the  'dangerous'  doctrines  of  us 
human  coral-workers,  whom  they  are 
pleased  to  term  'dreamers,'  and  'visionary 
impossibilists.!'  How  your  manly  chests 
swell  with  an  inherited  family  pride  when 
you  listen  to  these  old  whiskey-logged  pro- 
curers lavishing  their  abundant  praises  on 
this  'grand  Rep(hic)ublican  form  o' 


210  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

gov'ment— th'  greatest,  most  glo  (Me)  rious, 
most  pow'ful  'n  most  prosp'rous  (Me) 
gov'ment  under  th'  starry  can(Mc)opy  of 
high  (Me)  Heaven!'  " 

While  his  masters  were  laying  the  wires 
to  buy  Ms  " election"  to  the  Senate,  Bol- 
liver,  of  "Ahowa,"  was  freighted  through 
that  country  on  a  speaking  tour.  Stand- 
ing on  an  elaborate  grandstand  covered 
with  colored  bunting  and  built  for  the  oc- 
casion in  front  of  the  Hilton  Hotel,  in 
Madison,  Maine,  after  delivering  himself 
of  a  vile  tirade  of  vicious  abuse  of  the 
" dangerous  and  troublesome  Socialists," 
he  raised  both  hands  in  reverence  to  a  huge 
American  flag  stretched  clear  across  the 
street,  and  with  the  yellow  froth  of  un- 
controlled anger  spurting  from  his  lying 
lips,  hysterically  yelled:  "I  view  with 
alarm  the  seditious  schemes  of  these  dis- 
satisfied traitors  to  our  American  institu- 
tions. These  hair-faced,  wild-eyed,  red- 
throated  Socialists- Anarchists,  these  flan- 
nel-mouthed free-lovers  and  destroyers  of 
the  home!  And  I  point  with  pride  to  Old 
-Glory,  whose  virtuous,  star-spangled  folds 
wave  triumphantly  over  the  Land  of  the 
Free  and  the  Home  of  the  Brave.  I  point 
with  pride  to  the  fact  that  the  sun  never 
sets  where  her  heroic  colors  defiantly  float; 
and  I  point  with  pride  still  once  again,  to 
the  one  million,  five  hundred  thousand 
graves  in  the  South,  as  a  result  of  the  glori- 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  211 

ous  victory  of  the  'Boys  in  Blue'  when  the 
Republican  party  saved  the  nation  in  the 
early  sixties/' 

Stanley  knew  the  story,  and  he  told  them 
some  more  just  to  show  that  he  knew  what 
he  was  talking  about.  Bolliver  followed 
his  Madison  speech  with  a  meeting  in 
Skowhegan  the  next  night,  where,  as  it  so 
happened,  James  P.  Carey,  Socialist,  mem- 
ber of  the  Massachusetts  Legislature  for 
five  consecutive  terms,  was  speaking  for 
the  Socialists  on  the  streets.  "I  will  tell 
you  this  story  precisely  as  they  told  it  to 
me,"  said  Lark,  "for  1  would  not  care  to 
lie  about  a  dead  man,  especially  when  the 
whole  truth  is  too  terrible  to  be  told,  and 
too  damning  to  be  believed. 

"The  near-senator  Bolliver  advanced  to 
the  footlights  in  the  crowded  Opera  House, 
heroically  grabbed  a  couple  of  handfuls  of 
imaginary  whiskers  from  the  face  of  an 
imaginary  Socialist  agitator  immediately 
in  the  imaginary  front  of  him,  and  after 
a  magnificent  display  of  physical  dexterity 
in  demolishing  the  straw  terror  of  his  tem- 
pestuous brain,  he  fairly  shrieked:  'When 
the  Socialists  get  their  little  heads  above 
the  grass  we  will  find  adequate  means  of 
successfully  dealing  with  them!' 

"A  runner  reported  this  intelligence  to 
Comrade  Carey  on  the  Public  Square,  and 
Carey  rested  from  his  speaking  long 
enough  to  dictate  back  the  following  reply: 


212  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

'Unfortunately  for  you  and  your  adequate 
means,  Socialists  cannot  boast  of  kinship 
with  such  as  you  who  crawl  on  your  bellies 
through  the  grass.  They  are  not  serpents 
hiding  in  the  tall  grasses  to  strike  the 
poison  fang  into  the  vitals  of  misled  vic- 
tims. When  workingmen  become  enlight- 
ened to  their  own  interests,  they  will  mow 
down  the  swales  of  ignorance,  uncovering 
your  foul  nests  of  deceit  and  corruption. 
But  your  heads  will  be  in  no  immediate 
danger!  Whenever  the  pollypod  of  decep- 
tion and  false  teaching  has  been  leveled,  the 
only  visible  sign  of  you  will  be  the  pollu- 
tion and  bones  you  have  left  behind  and 
the  holes  where  you  will  have  burrowed  in 
to  shed  your  scaley  yellow  skins.' 

"  Senator  Bolliver  is  now  peacefully  rest- 
ing from  his  fruitless  labors,  while  the 
grass  grows  rank  and  green  above  his 
harmless  clay,  and  the  terrible  Socialists 
continue  to  spread  their  'seditious'  doc- 
trines in  increasing  volume,  and  Jim  Carey 
is  still  on  the  job." 

Then  he  told  them  more  about  govern- 
ments, and  how  that  every  so-called  Re- 
public was  only  a  Monarchy  under  another 
name.  "We  have  the  American  Au- 
tocracy," he  said,  "the  most  absolute  ty- 
rannical monarchy  that  ever  rode  the  backs 
of  a  subjugated  people.  We  are  ruled  not 
by  a  king,  but  by  the  kings!"  -  the  Kings 
of  Coin. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  213 

From  this  lie  took  them  all  through  the 
long  list  of  Monarchies,  Republics,  and  re- 
ligious dictatorships  that  had  ruled  the 
world  from  the  days  of  the  Tree  People 
before  Adam,  to  our  present  cliff-dwelling 
civilization  in  our  skyscraped  and  sewer- 
slummed  Injunction  Republic.  He  told 
them  of  the  family  groups,  banded  to- 
gether for  self-protection  from  wild  ani- 
mals; of  the  communal  groups  banded  to- 
gether for  protection  and  self-interest 
against  the  hostile  groups  of  other  tribes; 
of  the  invention  of  fire,  of  money,  religion, 
and  dictatorial  power.  Up  over  the  long, 
painful  staircase  of  time  he  led  them, 
step  by  step,  through  every  successive 
stage  of  civilization,  showing  the  many 
changes  and  revolutions  that  had  come  and 
gone  in  the  slow  process  of  evolutionary 
progress.  He  told  them  that  man  had 
progressed,  not  because,  but  in  spite  of, 
his  governments,  his  religions,  and  his 
"friends." 

"All  governments  were  enforced  forms 
of  slavery,"  he  told  them.  "Government 
began  when  the  first  male  brute  bit,  clawed 
and  lorded  it  over  his  female  mate.  Then 
came  the  battle  against  nature  for  food, 
when  the  strong  enslaved  the  weak  as 
burden  bearers  and  tillers  of  the  soil.  The 
biggest  hairy  brute  in  the  group  enslaved 
all  the  lesser  hairy  brutes,  weighting  their 
heads  down  with  yokes  of  wood  to  keep 


214  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

them  from  running  away,  and  clubbing 
them  to  their  tasks  or  to  death  as  pleased 
his  savage  fancy. 

"But  the  colony  grew  and  the  slaves  mul- 
tiplied, and  then  came  the  subordinate  of- 
ficers— the  lesser  chiefs  appointed  by  the 
greater — the  lieutenants,  police,  soldiers  or 
whatever  you  are  pleased  to  call  them. 
Anyway,  they  had  stayed  with  us,  and  the 
system  of  slavery  had  stayed  with  us.  The 
difference  between  then  and  now  being  in 
degree  and  method  only.  Then  it  was  a 
hairy  beast-man,  nude,  going  authorita- 
tively among  the  workers  with  a  rude  club, 
prodding  here  and  braining  there,  and  tak- 
ing orders  from  a  more  fearful  beast-man 
higher  up. 

"Now  it  is  a  smooth-shaven  man-beast, 
garbed  in  a  blue  uniform,  going  among 
workingmen  with  a  neatly  turned  and  nicely 
polished  l big-stick,'  a  tin  label  pinned 
over  his  yellow  heart  to  show  that  he  car- 
ries a  license  to  kill,  clubbing  heads  or 
yoking  the  hands  with  iron  handcuffs, 
hanging  them  with  ropes  or  shooting  and 
gutting  them  with  muskets  and  bayonets 
as  the  case  may  be.  The  former  was  a 
crude,  and  wasteful  barbarism — crude  be- 
cause undeveloped,  and  wasteful  because 
slaves  were  few  and  hard  to  hold.  The 
present  system  being  simply  a  more  refined 
and  scientific  barbarism,  with  thousands  of 
years  of  improvement  in  method,  and  a 


THE   TORCH   OF    REASON.  215 

thousand  times  more  cruel  than  the  old. 
Then  a  rebellious  slave  was  crashed  to 
earth,  roasted  and  eaten;  now  he  is  i black- 
listed,' discharged  and  turned  loose  to 
starve.  Then  slaves  were  hunted  and 
driven  into  pitfalls,  yoked  and  watched  day 
and  night  to  prevent  their  escape ;  now  they 
are  advertised  for  in  the  newspapers  and 
often  a  riot  call  has  to  be  rung  in  for  the 
police  to  keep  them  from  mobbing  their 
masters  for  a  job  of  work! 

"And  then  money  was  invented. 

"Beautiful  shells  and  pretty  pearls — 
these  were  the  first  'medium  of  exchange/ 
Added  to  which  came  horns,  skins,  bones 
and  a  thousand  devices  and  implements  of 
both  use  and  beauty.  Upon  this  coinage  of 
the  realm  were  engraved  the  first  images, 
pictures  and  heiroglyphics,  and  thus  'Art' 
was  born.  It  was  not  Art  for  Art's  sake, 
for  it  was  done  by  slaves  who  found  favor 
with  the  beast-man-higher-up,  and  so  the 
'government'  stamp  was  placed  on  the 
tribal  specie.  This  form  of  human  exploi- 
tation is  still  in  vogue,  only  in  a  more 
fraudulent  and  intensified  degree.  In  those 
days  a  shell  was  a  shell.  Now,  a  dollar  is 
63  cents  and  they  may  not  be  scraped  up 
generously  on  the  sea  shores. 

"Out  of  all  this,  stealing,  and  diverse 
forms  of  grand  and  petty  robbery — legal 
and  illegal— evolved,  as  a  result  of  which 
the  land  is  filled  today  with  those  boasted 


216  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

'free  institutions'  of  which  we  hear  so 
much — the  great  American  bull  pen,  or 
penitentiary,  the  poorhouse,  insane  asy- 
lum, the  'free  lunch,'  and  the  potter's  field. 

"On  the  heels  of  money  came  religion. 

"Of  course!  Neither  could  have  existed 
long  without  the  other,  and  so,  when  light- 
ning accidentally  struck  among  the  slaves 
one  day  killing  the  most  unruly  and  rebel- 
lious of  them,  God  was  invented.  It  was  an 
invention  by  man  destined  to  serve  the 
double  purpose  of  creating  that  time-hon- 
ored institution  known  as  the  'Divine 
Right  of  Kings,'  and  to  foster  supersti- 
tion and  ignorance  in  the  slave,  through 
fear  of  the  Great  Hot  Noise,  whose  control, 
through  the  benevolence  of  the  Great  Noise- 
maker,  henceforth  was  to  reside  in  the 
hands  of  the  Big  Chief, -Hairy  Beast-Man! 

"Governments  have  improved  much  since 
the  days  of  the  wooden  slave  yoke,"  the  big 
Texan  told  them.  "But  they  have  ever 
been  governments  by  the  masters  for  the 
enslavement  of  the  slaves.  The  masters 
never  needed  any  governing.  They  were 
always  above  government — they  were  the 
government!  Without  masters  there  could 
be  no  slaves,  and  without  slaves  the  masters 
would  have  to  work  and  earn  their  own 
living  like  honest  people.  The  masters 
were  always  agreed — class-conscious,  as  it 
were — and  never  fell  out  except  through 
jealousy  or  greed,  and  then  they  proceeded 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  217 

patriotically,  to  set  their  slaves  to  fighting 
on  the  'glorious  field  of  battle!* 

"The  United  States  Government  was 
formed  by  plutocrats, ' '  he  told  them.  '  *  They 
were  the  sporadic  embryo  of  a  multiplicity 
of  money-kings,  which  money-kings  were 
to  rule  this  nation  as  no  monarchy  was  ever 
ruled  before.  There  was  not  a  working- 
man  among  them.  It  was  not  a  majority 
rule,  but  a  minority  rule  they  established. 
The  Declaration  of  Independence  was  fine- 
sounding  phraseology;  but  the  Constitution 
was  a  document  drawn  up  and  signed  by 
pirates  and  smugglers,  and  the  Supreme 
Court  was  simply  the  kennel  of  Wall 
Street,  whose  watch  dogs  were  there  to 
guard  stolen  goods  and  growl  back  the 
people  from  the  gate  whenever  they  men- 
aced the  Money-Bags. 

Then  he  asked  them  if  they  had  ever  read 
"The  Spirit  of  the  American  Govern- 
ment," by  J.  Allen  Smith.  Also  he  wanted 
to  know  of  them,  if  they  had  ever  heard  of 
Kirkpatrick,  and  his  "War— What  For?" 
But,  as  nobody  scratched,  he  kept  firing 
away  until,  finally,  Bert  Tarbarrel,  the 
Hinklyville  bully  and  Democrat  ward 
heeler  for  Slab  City,  courageously  chal- 
lenged: "How  about  Thomas  Jefferson1? 
Tell  us  about  him.  Wasn't  he  the  greatest 
Democratic  statesman — or  any  other  states- 
man for  that  matter — that  ever  lived?" 


218  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

"  Possibly,"  circumvented  the  wary 
Texan,  "and  lie  might  easily  have  qualified 
as  a  preacher,  or  even  a  priest/'  he  added, 
naively.  "Among  the  many  great  states- 
manlike proclivities  accredited  to  Jeffer- 
son," he  explained,  "was  his  Platonic  love 
of  the  negro.  Especially  Platonic  seems 
to  have  been  his  avidity  for  the  carbon- 
skinned  aboriginal  of  the  feminine  gender. 
He  so  loved  the  odoriferous  wench  that  he 
wept  regretfully  on  his  deathbed  that  there 
was  no  surety,  under  the  Slave  Code,  that 
his  beautiful  mulatto  daughters  would  not 
be  'coerced'  and  sold  on  the  auction  block 
into  the  rice  swamps,  or  at  the  'harem 
price!'  Of  course,  Thomas  Jefferson  was 
a  white  man.  But  the  mother  of  his  mu- 
latto children  was  a  negress,  as  black  as  the 
ace  of  spades  and  as  oily  and  effluvious  as 
a  university  donation  from  John  D.  Rocke- 
feller. 

"Yes,  Jefferson  was  a  great  man,"  he 
concurred.  "He  penned  this  declaration: 
'All  men  are  created  equal.'  Also,  he  seems 
to  have  done  all  he  could  paternally  to  live 
up  to  that  declaration.  As  further  evi- 
dence— if  any  were  needed — that  Thomas 
Jefferson  was  a  great  and  good  man,  be- 
sides being  the  common-law  husband  of  a 
negro  slave  and  the  father  of  a  whole  nest 
of  little  black  slavelings,  he  is  still  accred- 
ited— in  some  quarters — with  being  the 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  219 

illustrious  sire  of  the  Democratic  jackass 
and  the  despairing  refuge  of  the  few  frag- 
mentory  derelicts  of  that  decadent  Jeffer- 
sonian  Democracy,  whatever  that  may 
mean.  If  this  doesn't  answer  your  ques- 
tion/' tantalized  the  merciless  iconoclast, 
"dig  up  a  copy  of  'The  American  Slave 
Code'  (suppressed),  by  William  Goodell, 
turn  to  page  375  and  read  how  this  same 
Thomas  Jefferson  waited  until  death-struck 
to  pen  a  clause  in  his  last  will  and  testa- 
ment, conferring  freedom  on  his  own  mu- 
latto offspring — Ms  own  flesh  and  blood — 
so  far  as  the  Slave  Code  permitted  him  to 
do,  and  'humbly'  imploring  the  legislature 
of  Virginia  to  confirm  the  bequests,  'with 
permission  to  remain  in  the  state,  where 
their  families  and  connections  are' — then 
dying  under  such  a  cloud  of  shame  and 
uncertainty." 

Ashworth  was  a  Eepublican  town.  That 
settled  it !  Bert  Tarbarrel,  ex-factory  slave 
driver,  gambler,  town  blaggard  and  beater- 
up  of  defenseless  country  boys,  had  met  his 
Waterloo.  The  crowd  hooted  him  out  of 
the  hall,  and  when  the  "Shoofly"  from 
Boston  slowed  up  at  that  place  on  its  mid- 
nightly  run  through  the  New  Hampshire 
hills  to  Canada,  a  dark  form  swung  on  to 
the  blind  baggage  and  was  pulled  into  the 
night,  never  to  return. 

"Socialists  are  not  necessarily  better 
men,  but  they  know  more.  They  know 


220  THE    TORCH   OF    REASON. 

some  of  the  vital  things  of  life.  Some  of 
the  things  they  know  are  so!  They  know 
what  they  want,  and  they  are  the  only  peo- 
ple in  the  world  who  do.  They  know  that 
you  want  the  same  conditions  that  they 
want;  but  you  don't  know  that.  They  know 
how  to  get  the  things  for  all  men  that  they 
know  all  men  want;  but  your  ignorance  is 
in  the  way,  and  they  know  they  can  accom- 
plish the  regeneration  of  the  world  only 
after  a  majority  have  come  to  know  what 
they  know.  They  know  that  they  are  slaves, 
and  that  they  are  being  'divided  up'  from 
the  product  of  their  labor.  This  knowledge 
has  resulted  in  their  becoming  unwilling 
slaves.  They  are  not  'satisfied  with  their 
lot!'  They  haven't  a  lot.  They  have  only 
a  little!  That's  because  they  belong  to  the 
working  class.  The  working  class  creates 
a  lot,  but  owns  a  little.  It's  only  those 
who  create  little  that  own  a  lot.  The  less 
one  creates  under  Capitalism,  the  more  he 
may  own.  The  capitalist  creates  nothing 
and  owns  everything.  That's  because  you 
believe  something  that  isn't  true.  You 
believe  you  are  free  and  independent 
citizens. 

"You  believe  that  you  are  all  equal  be- 
fore the  law,  and  that  every  boy  born  in 
America  has  an  equal  chance  to  become 
President  of  the  United  States  (I  suppose 
all  at  the  same  time)  !  You  hear  this  from 
the  moment  you  are  a  pip  in  the  shell  to 


THE   TORCH    OF   REASON.  221 

the  day  when  they  fold  your  calloused 
hands  and  send  you  back  to  the  potato 
patch  for  the  count.  It  comes  to  us  from 
every  point  of  the  compass:  the  school- 
room, the  pulpit,  the  newspaper,  the  public 
library,  the  courts  and  the  fireside:  'This 
is  the  greatest  government  that  ever  was, 
ever  ought  to  be,  ever  can  be,  anywhere  at 
any  time  for  anybody!'  That's  what  you 
tell  me  when  I  come  to  you  with  the  great 
truths  of  Socialism,  and  as  long  as  your 
masters  succeed  in  making  you  believe  that 
each  of  you  is  a  sovereign  individual,  his 
warm  seat  between  your  shoulders  is  se- 
cure. He  doesn't  believe  this,  and  that's 
why  he  doesn't  like  a  Socialist. 

"You  tell  me  the  reason  the  capitalists 
have  all  the  money  is  because  they  have 
the  brains.  That's  right!  That's  the  only 
time  you  ever  tell  a  Socialist  the  truth. 
This  is  not  because  you  are  dishonest  and 
prefer  to  misrepresent  the  facts  in  the 
case,  but  it's  because  you  don't  know  any 
better.  The  reason  the  capitalist  has  more 
brains  than  the  working  man  is  because  the 
capitalist  develops  his  own  brains,  and  uses 
them  in  his  own  interest.  The  capitalist 
works  with  his  brain!  You  workers  spend 
all  your  time  developing  your  hands,  and 
when  you  need  brains  you  use  your  mas- 
ter's! If  you  used  your  own  brains  your 
masters  would  have  to  use  their  hands. 


222  THE    TORCH   OF    REASON. 

This  would  never  do,  for  then,  who  would 
there  be  to  hire  you?!!! 

"Without  some  one  to  own  our  jobs  and 
to  drive  us  to  work,  tell  us  when  we  are 
so  tired  we  cannot  work  any  longer,  and 
to  take  away  from  us  eighty-three  dollars 
out  of  every  one  hundred  we  have  created, 
we  would  all  starve  to  death!  That's  clear 
enough,  isn't  it? 

"This   earth  was   here  when  we   came. 
(We  will  not  quarrel  at  this  time  over  how 
it  came  to  be  here,  we  will  go  to  Science 
for   the   answer   to   that   question.)      The 
earth  was  of  no  value  until  man  came  out 
of  it  to  possess  it.     Values  were  created 
when  man  saw  that  he  had  to  exercise  his 
muscles  or  starve.     Nothing  was  of  value 
in   the   earth   until   man   fried  his   sweat 
under  the  burning   sun   and  maimed  his 
manly  beauty  in  his  crude  efforts  to  stay 
alive.     In  the  early  struggles  of  this  bi- 
pedaled  god,  when,  with  his  big  stick  in 
hand,  he  strode  forth  into  the  jungle  for 
food,  it  is  not  recorded  that  he  encountered 
signs  reading:  'Keep  off  the  grass,  private 
property,'  etc.     Neither  is  there  mention 
made  in  any  of  the  literature,  or  the  public 
press  of  that  time,  of  meat  trusts,  oil  trusts, 
or  any  other  trusts  or  distrusts  to  bribe 
legislators  and  poison  the  race  with  adul- 
terated foods.     Nor  had  the  divorce  court 
become  a  necessary  adjunct  to  the  heaven- 
ordained   institution   of   matrimony.     All 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  223 

these  and  many  other  great,  and  munificent 
inventions  have  come  to  us  as  a  result  of 
the  '  confidence '  which  those  who  do  all  the 
useful  work  have  placed,  with  such  guile- 
less faith,  in  the  confidence  games  of  others 
who  work  the  workers  by  the  splendid  work 
they  do  with  their  brains!. 

"You  want  to  know  what  Socialism  is. 
There  is  no  such  thing  in  all  the  world; 
and  the  places  where  Socialism  has  been 
tried  and  failed  exist  only  in  the  fertile 
imagination  of  such  asses  and  liars  as  the 
Boy  Orator  of  the  Platt,  and  Tse  Ted,  the 
hero  of  Pot  Hill. 

"  Socialism  is  the  offspring  of  Capital- 
ism. It  could  not  have  existed  prior  to 
Capitalism,  and  cannot  exist  with  it.  They 
are  two  distinct  systems,  and  are  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  one  another.  If  you  would 
know  what  Socialism  is — to  be,  you  must 
first  know  what  Capitalism  is.  Without 
this  knowledge  thoroughly  digested,  Social- 
ism were  impossible  of  your  comprehen- 
sion. 

"How  many  of  you  can  tell  me  what 
Capitalism  is?  You  have  lived  under  its 
iron  sway  all  your  lives,  ever  since  the 
invention  of  machinery  came  to  displace 
hand  labor;  and  not  one  of  you  can  tell  me 
one  of  its  fundamental  principles.  You 
may  be  excused  in  this,  for  the  truth  is, 
that  it  has  no  principle.  That  is  why  the 
old  parties  stand  for  it.  If  it  had  any  prin- 


224  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

ciple  the  Republican  and  Democratic  par- 
ties would  not  be  wholly  unprincipled.  But 
Capitalism  possesses  one  redeeming  virtue : 
it  is  absolutely  selfish,  and  operates  entirely 
in  self-interest,  When  you  workers  get 
wise  to  the  game,  you  will  get  into  that 
game,  and  then  the  rotten  old  system  will 
fall  before  you  in  one  round. 

"Capitalism  is  a  system  of  murder  and 
robbery,  legalized  and  made  respectable  by 
law,  and  inflicted  on  the  many  by  the  few. 
Its  beneficiaries  are  few,  but  its  votaries 
are  many.  Under  its  codes  the  minority 
rule  the  majority,  while  the  majority  have 
no  voice  or  power.  This  remarkable  state 
of  affairs  is  manipulated  through  the  de- 
ception of  what  is  misnamed  '  representa- 
tion.' The  minority  who  own  everything, 
nominate  all  the  candidates  for  office,  and 
the  majority  who  own  nothing  vote  them 
into  power,  pay  their  salaries,  only  to  be 
promptly  robbed  by  them  to  fatten  the 
purses  of  their  masters — the  minority. 
This  is  called  ' representative  government'! 
This  is  requiring  an  intelligent  person  to 
exercise  a  phenomenal  stretch  of  generous 
imagination;  but,  somehow,  you  accomplish 
the  remarkable  feat  year  after  year,  and 
never  tumble! 

"It  is  said  that  a  chain  is  as  strong  as 
its  weakest  link;  and  that  beggars  get  all 
they  deserve.  Who  shall  say  that  such  a 
*  representative'  government  is  not  as  rep- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  225 

resentative  as  is  deserved  by  a  people  who 
will  fight  each  other  to  perpetuate  if? 

"  Surely  such  a  magnanimous  and  aspir- 
ing people  ought  not  to  be  molested  in  the 
possession  and  enjoyment  of  what  they 
vote  for! 

"You  have  voted  for  poverty  for  your- 
selves and  you've  got  it.  You  have  voted 
for  plenty  for  your  masters  and  theyVe 
got  it.  You  have  voted  for  hell  and  we're 
all  in  it!  But  I  don't  like  it,  and  I  want 
to  get  out  of  it.  That's  one  reason  why 
I  am  a  Socialist. 

"As  I  said  before,  you  ought  to  have 
what  you  voted  for,  and  you've  got  it;  but 
I  did  not  vote  for  it,  yet  have  it,  and  must 
suffer  the  tortures  of  hell  along  with  ninety 
millions  of  others  who  did  not  vote  for  it. 
It  is  a  beautiful  situation  wherein  almost  a 
hundred  millions  of  innocent  men,,  women 
and  children  have  to  surrender  their  indi- 
viduality, prostitute  their  manhood  and 
womanhood,  maim  their  flesh  and  bones  in 
the  mills  and  marts  of  wage-slavery,  for 
the  folly  of  a  handful  of  honest,  but  de- 
luded voting,  unthinking,  toiling  serfs." 

Under  the  scathing  arraignment  of  their 
pet  political  systems  the  shyster  lawyer 
Jibbs,  and  the  coterie  of  political  hybrids, 
including  Editor  Happyman,  of  the  Aber- 
rant, Sheriff  Larding,  and  old  Ben  East- 
ern, the  local  land  pirate,  became  almost 
livid  with  inburning  rage.  From  the  tre- 


226  THE  TORCH    OF    REASON. 

mendous  applause  that  frequently  inter- 
rupted his  sledge-hammer  Sailings,  it  could 
plainly  be  seen  that  the  crowded  house  was 
with  him  to  a  man,  save  for  a  dozen  or  so 
of  those  smoothly  groomed  gentlemen  in 
the  front  rows,  who  owned  the  town,  body 
and  soul,  and  who  had  " taken  in"  the  So- 
cialist meeting  partly  for  a  joke,  and  partly 
to  start  a  fight  in  which  the  meeting  was 
to  be  broken  up  and  the  local  organization 
demoralized  and  driven  out  of  town.  It 
had  all  been  arranged  in  advance,  and  was 
to  come  off  on  schedule  time,  just  as  the 
speaker  was  winding  up  his  discourse. 

The  gray-haired  hermit  of  Tannerhill 
Hill  had  several  times  been  seen  to  clap  his 
hands  furiously,  and  actually  shout,  "Hur- 
rah for  the  Socialists!"  as  the  Texas  her- 
cules  hurled  his  stinging  rebuke  into  the 
very  teeth  of  the  leader  of  the  Republican 
Ring,  who,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  had 
tried  to  confuse  him.  And  Leland  Tanner- 
hill  was  known  to  be  a  Republican!  No 
man  could  accuse  him  of  ever  having  been 
a  "turncoat,"  but  here  he  was,  seated  on 
the  rostrum  with  a  half-dozen  common 
town  laborers — all  Socialists — and  wildly 
approving  the  "ranting  harangue  of  a 
flannel-mouthed  agitator ! ' ' 

"It  is  hard  to  tell,"  resumed  the  South- 
erner, "what  Socialism  is,  there  being  none; 
but  it  is  not  hard  to  foresee  what  it  will 
be.  Socialism  will  be  an  operative  plan  of 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  227 

co-operative  ownership  among  men,  of  the 
publicly  used  necessities  of  human  life.  It 
will  be  an  Industrial  Democracy. 

"Capitalism  is  the  antithesis,  or  opposite 
of  public  ownership.  Its  very  life  depends 
on  the  competitive  traffic  in  the  collectively 
used  wealth  of  the  nation.  Capitalism  is 
private  ownership  and  exploitation  of  the 
common  property  of  the  people.  It  may 
legally  and  lawfully  be  engaged  in  by  any 
individual  who  can  steal  enough  money  to 
go  into  the  business.  This  is  done  for  pri- 
vate profit  at  public  expense.  Socialism 
would  not  permit  this  individual  robbery  of 
the  Public.  Only  the  Public  itself  would 
be  in  business,  and  then  only  for  the  Public 
Good,  and  not  for  private  profit.  Not  only 
is  Capitalism  a  system  of  private  owner- 
ship and  exploitation  of  public  utilities, 
but  the  whole  list  of  private  necessities  is 
included  in  its  monopoly  on  human  life. 
Capitalism  is,  everything  for  profit ;  Social- 
ism will  be,  everything  for  use.  Socialism 
would  have  the  people  own  the  government ; 
Capitalism  is  ownership  of  the  people  by 
the  government.  Under  Capitalism,  a  po- 
litical tool  who  plans  the  blowing  up  of  a 
battleship  with  its  sleeping  crew,  may  be- 
come President  of  the  nation;  under  So- 
cialism, there  will  be  no  battleships  to  blow 
up  and  no  especial  glory  could  come  from 
shooting  an  unarmed  banana  boy  in  the 
back.  Socialism  will  not  be  what  some 


228  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

cunning,  confessed  murderer  and  Ms  pri- 
vate retinue  of  lawless  understrappers 
deign  to  make  it;  it  will  be  what  is  de- 
manded by  organized  society. 

"Man  is  a  social  animal. 

"  Under  Capitalism,  society  is  supposed  to 
be  the  reflex  of  some  touted  individual  in 
public  life.  Therefore,  when  a  great  killer 
succeeds  in  killing  his  way  into  the  chief 
magistracy  of  the  executive  service,  every- 
body buys  a  gun,  the  teeth  are  worn  'open- 
face,'  and  Sunday-school  children  march  to 
church  in  uniform,  a  bible  under  one  arm 
and  a  shotted  rifle  on  the  other !  This  is  the 
religion  of  Jesus  Christ  under  this  Twen- 
tieth Century  'reign  of  terror!'  It  says  to 
the  'sinner':  'Read  this  book  and  do  as  I 
say,  or  I'll  blow  hell  out  of  you!'  This  is 
said  to  be  'Individualism,'  and  under  its 
'patriotic'  influences  life  becomes  an  option 
between  '  race  suicide, '  and  race  murder ! 

"Under  Socialism,  the  individual  will  be 
the  reflex  of  Society,  and  Society  will  be  the 
reflex  of  its  emancipated  and  reawakened 
will 

"You  want  to  know  how  Socialism  is 
going  to  'work.'  In  God's  name,  tell  me 
how  Capitalism  works?  Socialism  will  not 
work,  it  will  be  worked  by  Society.  Cap- 
italism works,  all  right.  It  'works'  both  the 
individual  and  Society! 

"It  is  said,  'a  carpenter  may  be  known 
by  his  chips,  as  well  as  by  the  structure  he 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  229 

builds/  Capitalism  has  built  your  modern 
society ;  look  at  its  handiwork !  It  is  a  house 
of  ill-fame.  Look  at  the  'chips'  of  its  build- 
ers! They  are  fifty  millions  of  human 
wrecks,  festering  in  ignorance  and  poverty. 
A  race  disinherited  on  an  opulent  earth. 
Do  you  think  Socialism — or  any  other  'ism' 
could  beat  that? " 

"So  you  p'ose  t'  (hie)  equalize  every- 
body 'n  bring  all  to  a  dead  level,  'n  pull  a 
white  man  down  to  the  same  plane  with  a 
(hie)  nigger,  'eh?"  drawled  out  Lawyer 
Berrill,  Chairman  of  the  Republican  Town 
Committee,  who  had  evidently  been  holding 
back  to  sober  up  for  this  grand  and  decisive 
blow.  This  caused  a  stir  among  the  other 
members  of  the  gang,  and  Stanley  Lark 
knew  there  was  mischief  in  the  wind.  He 
buttoned  his  coat  and  drew  his  tall  figure  up 
to  its  full  height,  and  looking  the  old  wolf 
squarely  in  the  face,  replied:  "When  Social- 
ists advocate  a  system  so  peaceful  as  not  to 
require  an  army  and  navy  to  force  it  down 
the  throat  of  Society,  they  are  accused  of 
being  'anarchists'  and  'inciting  to  violence!' 
When  Socialists  aver  that  every  man  and 
woman  should  be  so  prosperous  and  secure 
in  life  as  to  enable  them  to  marry  the  love 
of  their  choice  and  rear  a  happy  family 
without  fear  of  hard  times  and  poverty,  they 
are  accused  of  being  'free  lovers,'  with  a 
desire  to  'break  up  the  home!'  When  So- 
cialists affirm  the  inalienable  right  of  every 


230  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

human  creature  to  work  at  useful  labor  with 
a  guarantee  that  the  full  value  of  the  prod- 
uct of  their  toil  shall  be  theirs  to  be  enjoyed 
by  them,  they  are  charged  with  being  *  dead- 
levelers,'  whatever  that  may  mean. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  Socialist  pro- 
gram to  interfere  with  your  chances  of  be- 
coming just  as  good  as  the  blackest  negro 
that  ever  wet-nursed  a  millionaire,  or  spilled 
sweat  in  a  white  man's  soup.  In  the  North 
you  go  to  school  with  them,  work  with  them, 
and  vote  with  them.  In  Washington  your 
President  eats  with  them.  In  the  army  and 
navy  you  fight  with  them,  and  in  the  South 
you  sleep  with  them.  Take  your  wife  out 
and  show  her  the  little  yellow  faces  that 
mingle  with  the  white  faces  of  her  own  chil- 
dren in  the  streets.  Then  accuse  us  Social- 
ists of  advocating  'race  equality/  and  warn 
the  black  man  against  Socialism  because  it 
promises  him  an  honest  job  of  work!" 

At  this  last,  the  crowd  went  fairly  wild. 
Everybody  knew  old  Berrill,  the  man  that 
Jim  Carey  had  handled  so  unmercifully  in  a 
debate  over  in  Skowhegan,  and  the  cheering 
at  his  discomforture  by  another  Socialist 
was  long  and  hearty.  Amid  such  shouts  as, 
'That's  right,"  "Hurrah  for  Socialism," 
"We're  with  you,"  etc.,  "Monkey"  and 
"Dutchy"  Boston,  two  Old  Town  gamblers 
and  theatrical  baggage  thieves,  now  mem- 
bers of  the  Eepublican  "Ring,"  arose,  and 
crowding  their  way  to  the  footlights,  shook 


"Swish!  the  whip  cut  the  air.     The  bully  came  to  four  hours 
later  in  the  hospital!" 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  231 

their  fists  at  the  smiling  Texan.  "Dutchy," 
a  two-hundred-pound  bully,  who  had  once 
traveled  with  a  leg-show,  as  bouncer  on  the 
door,  bawled  out  so  loud  that  all  could  hear 
above  the  confusion:  "Youze  aughter  be 
hosswhipped,  ye  Panhandle  hayseed!" 
Tossing  him  a  silver  dollar  in  full  view  of 
the  vast  audience,  and  without  the  slightest 
show  of  anger,  the  speaker  exclaimed:  "It 
is  an  experience  I  have  never  enjoyed, 
brother ;  here  is  a  dollar — it  will  buy  a  good 
whip." 

The  bruiser  took  Stanley  at  his  word. 
Out  of  the  hall  he  tore,  to  return  five  min- 
utes later  with  a  long  horsewhip.  The  crowd 
was  on  its  feet  now,  and  no  one  saw  the 
shyster  lawyer  Jibbs  when  he  slunk  out  by  a 
rear  exit.  Boston  sprang  upon  the  stage. 
Swish!  the  whip  cut  the  air!  *  *  *  The 
bully  came  to  four  hours  later  in  the  hos- 
pital! 

Pandemonium  reigned!  Sheriff  Larding 
drew  his  revolver  and  was  in  the  act  of 
shooting,  when  Rec  Cotton  sprang  upon  him 
like  a  panther  and  bore  him  down.  Leland 
and  the  Texan  both  rushed  forward  simul- 
taneously to  disarm  the  drunken  sheriff, 
when  there  was  a  crash  of  glass  from  one 
of  the  windows !  The  next  instant  a  blood- 
stained stone  ricochetted  from  a  hoary  tem- 
ple and  bounded  across  the  stage  to  the 
proscenium.  Leland  Tannerhill  uttered  a 
groan,  staggered  backward  and  fell  at  full 
length  on  the  floor ! 


CHAPTEE  VII. 
MIND,  THE  MASTER. 

Rebellious  at  his  fettered  task, 

At  break  of  dawn  Pierian — 
Nor  master  sought  his  leave  to  ask — 

Arose  a  slave — a  god — a  man ! 

Quimby  Sands,  so  rumor  had  it,  was  not 
an  obedient  child.  Not  that  he  was  an  in- 
corrigible, but  having  ideas,  as  all  healthy 
children  will,  he  early  began  to  think  orig- 
inal thoughts  and  to  do  things  in  his  own 
original  way.  This  was  accredited  to  a 
" stubborn  will"  by  the  knowing  ones,  and 
when  the  minister  paid  his  regular  monthly 
visit,  they  would  shake  their  heads  with 
melancholy  gravity  and  predict  all  kinds  of 
dire  calamity  for  any  community  where 
town  "poppers"  held  their  heads  so  high! 
The  good  minister  said  that  probably  he  was 
"spunky,"  and  that  his  "spirit  would  have 
to  be  broken  I ' '  This  spirit-breaking  process 
was  frequently  undertaken,  and  very  assidu- 
ously persisted  in  by  means  of  the  ox-goad, 
and  cowhide  routes;  but  the  uncowed  son- 
of-his-father  developed  spine  instead  of 
hinges  in  his  neck,  and  when  the  pious  sages 
reached  what  looked  like  either  the  "break- 
ing" point  or  death,  the  clear  hazel  eyes  of 
the  unconquered  boy  would  flash  a  challenge 

(232) 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  233 

of  defiance  in  the  teeth  of  his  torturers,  for 
he  was  the  son  of  Jason  Sands. 

He  was  a  healthy  boy,  and  he  loved  the 
country  with  its  wooded  hills  and  grassy 
meadows.  He  loved  the  wild  flowers  and 
the  running  streams  and  the  songs  of  the 
thrushes  and  the  bobolinks;  and  all  the 
wild  things  that  moved  shyly  and  noise- 
lessly through  the  dank  mosses  of  the  deep 
forests.  But  he  hated  work.  He  wondered 
why  the  kindhearted  farmers  who  lived 
among  all  these  rare  beauties  never  loved 
them.  He  knew  they  did  not,  for  they 
never  talked  of  them  and  only  talked  of 
work,  and  money;  and  the  rough  tasks 
meted  out  to  him  he  shrank  from  with 
loathing. 

Rock  picking  among  the  sharp  stubble 
when  the  fingers  would  bleed  and  the  back 
ache,  was  distasteful  to  him.  The  filthy 
chores  among  the  cattle  and  hogs  around 
the  tumble-down  barn;  the  slow  and  un- 
handy method  of  doing  things  after  the 
manner  of  their  grandfathers;  all  these 
crude,  wasteful  and  unscientific  struggles 
with  simple  nature  he  hated;  and  in  his 
progressive  child-mind  he  marveled  that 
older  men  did  not  find  out  other  ways  to 
make  the  work  a  lighter  burden. 

Fatherless  and  motherless,  he  had  none 
to  protect  and  advise  him;  and  with  the 
kicks  and  cuffs  of  strangers  hurrying 
through  the  world,  he  was  buffetted  from 


234  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

place  to  place  until  lie  fetched  up  in  the 
streets  of  Boston,  a  green  country  boy  ten 
years  old,  with  a  two-dollar  suit  of  clothes, 
cowhide  boots  and  an  empty  stomach. 

It  was  here  that,  after  starving  for  days 
in  the  streets,  he  learned  to  sell  papers  and 
shine  shoes.  Later,  he  "suped"  in  the  thea- 
ters, and  it  was  discovered  that  he  pos- 
sessed a  voice  of  great  quality,  and  he 
learned  to  sing.  Also  he  secured  a  place  in 
a  grocery  and  provision  store  in  the  Back 
Bay,  where  he  worked  long  hours  for  three 
dollars  a  week.  Over  an  oil  lamp  in  his 
attic  room  at  No.  10  Grotton  street,  which 
room  cost  him  one  dollar  a  week,  he  cooked 
his  simple  food  when  his  long  day  was 
done;  and  from  the  balance  of  his  meager 
wage,  together  with  the  fifty  cents  per  night 
for  "suping"  (which  was  sometimes  really 
paid  him),  he  managed  meanly  to  live  and 
to  continue  his  daily  round  of  hustle,  over- 
worked and  half -starved  though  he  was. 

Moreover,  he  learned  to  save,  even  from 
this  scanty  income;  and  out  of  his  saving 
fund  he  dressed  himself  neatly,  if  a  three- 
dollar  suit  of  shoddy  store  clothes  may  be 
said  to  be  neat,  and  bought  old  books  from 
the  " second-hand  man"  around  the  corner. 

But  fourteen  hours  a  day  for  three  dol- 
lars a  week  began  to  make  him  think,  after 
a  long  time,  and  when  he  mustered  up  pluck 
enough  to  think  out  loud  in  the  presence 
of  his  boss,  the  store  raised  his  pay. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  235 

With  another  whole  dollar  every  week 
added  to  his  former  three,  he  bought  some 
white  pocket  handkerchiefs  of  the  seven- 
for-a-quarter  quality  from  a  faker  on  the 
street,  and  some  fifty  cent  under-flannels— 
the  first  he  had  ever  worn.  Also  he  bought 
more  and  better  books. 

He  read  everything  he  could  lay  hands 
on;  for  nothing  seemed  right  in  all  the 
world,  and  he  felt  that  somewhere  in  some 
of  the  vast  porridge  of  printed  things  that 
great  men  had  said,  there  must  be  told  the 
reason  for  so  much  apparent  useless  wrong. 

He  used  to  read  the  Holy  Bible  to  the 
old  people  on  the  farm  before  running 
away,  and  he  knew  it  almost  by  heart.  He 
had  read  it  through  twice  before  he  was 
ten  years  of  age,  it  being  his  nightly  task 
to  read  a  chapter  to  them,  because  their 
sight  was  poor.  But  that  was  a  long  time 
ago,  he  decided,  and  he  would  be  fair,  now 
that  he  had  gained  what  was  said  to  be  his 
independence.  So  he  began  by  rereading 
the  Holy  Bible,  and  soon  became  filled  with 
great  wonder  and  desire.  The  whole  of 
his  young  life  had  been  spent  among  pious 
church  folk,  and  he  had  always  attended 
and  loved  his  Sunday-school ;  but  here  were 
whole  chapters  in  God's  Holy  Book  from 
which  no  minister  he  knew  had  ever  drawn 
a  text,  and  he  wondered  why.  But  in  his 
note  book  he  took  down  a  few  quotations 
from  Jeremiah  25,  27-28;  Isaiah  63:  6;  Ex. 


j  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

21,  2-8,  20-21 ;  2  Thess.  2,  11 ;  Deut.  14,  21 ; 
Gen.  16,  1-4;  Gen.  19,  30-37;  Gen.  30,  1-22; 
Gen.  38;  2  Sam.  11,  2-6;  Ezek.  14,  9;  1 
Kings  22,  20-23;  Luke  14,  26;  Luke  12,  51; 
Mat.  10,  34-35;  Jer.  48,  10;  Deut.  20,  16-17; 
Num.  31,  17-18;  Num.  33,  52-55;  Deut.  2, 
24-25-34;  Deut.  3,  3-6;  Josh.  6,  2-21;  Josh. 
8,  18-28;  Josh.  12,  24;  Matt.  10,  34;  Ps. 
137,  9;  Isa.  13,  15-18;  Nah.  3,  10;  Zach. 
14,  2;  Hosea  13,  16;  2  Sam.  12,  15-18;  Lev. 
26,  22;  Ex.  20-5;  Col.  3,  18;  Col.  2,  8;  1 
Cor.  8,  1;  Eccl.  1,  18;  1  Cor.  4,  10;  1  Cor. 
14,  38;  Rev.  22,  11;  Eev.  12;  Eom.  13,  1-3, 
and  numerous  others.  The  source  from 
whence  men's  prejudices  arose  had  always 
puzzled  him,  but  it  puzzled  him  no  more. 
And  when  he  had  read  these  Scriptures  over 
three  times  more,  he  knew  that  he  was  no 
hero,  and  he  blamed  the  preachers  no  more. 
In  after  years  he  often  thanked  the  day 
when  he  resolved  to  reread  the  Scriptures, 
and  he  regretted  not  that  he  had  paid  a 
dime  for  this  Holy  Bible  at  the  old  second- 
hand man's. 

Into  the  sciences  next  he  delved,  and  the 
errors  he  unearthed  among  the  works  of 
the  so-called  great  professors  astounded 
him,  child  though  he  was. 

In  his  old  geography  he  remembered  of 
having  read  that  coal  was  the  prehistoric 
deposit  of  infusorial  vegetation  that  had 
fallen  from  the  bottom  of  floating  islands 
in  lakes !  To  verify  this  supposed  inf orma- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  237 

tion  he  snatched  a  lump  of  it  from  the 
first  coal-wagon  he  saw  passing  in  the 
streets,  and  from  experiments  covering 
many  years,  but  which  were  ever  persist- 
ently pursued,  he  discovered  that  coal  was 
simply  solidified,  liquified  wood.  Even  the 
insects  and  animals  were  maligned  and  lied 
about.  And  when  he  made  one  shocking 
discovery  after  another  to  the  effect  that 
all  the  simplest  fundamentals  of  common, 
everyday  things  were  either  not  known  or 
else  ignored,  feared,  or  misunderstood,  how 
hardly  shall  we  censure  him  for  coming  to 
doubt  the  orthodox  theory  of  organic  life? 

Spencer  and  Darwin  were  not  dry  read- 
ing for  this  intellectual  glutton.  He  learned 
much  from  them.  They  were  not  alto- 
gether right,  but  they  were  on  the  right 
track.  Schopenhauer,  Nietsche  and  Lom- 
broso  were  geniuses ;  but  he  criticized  them 
all,  and  when  he  had  read  Ibsen,  Nordau, 
Kant,  Ward  and  Carlyle,  he  began  to  real- 
ize life  as  it  had  not  appealed  to  him  be- 
fore. 

He  loved  Voltaire  and  Tom  Paine.  The 
one  for  his  great  bravery,  and  the  other 
for  his  great  honesty.  Huxley  came  in  for 
his  share  of  glory,  also  for  criticism,  and 
Hegel  he  devoured  with  painstaking  relish, 
after  which,  and  in  spite  of  himself,  he 
found  himself  reading  the  Apocryphal 
mythologies,  and  everything  beyond  and 
in  between,  from  lightning-worship  to 


238  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Christ,  and  from  theology  subdued  to  the 
" divine  right  of  dividends." 

After  five  years  of  ceaseless  work  and 
constant  study,  he  began  to  feel  growing 
into  him  a  great  longing  for  strange  sights 
and  things  other  than  those  of  the  daily 
grind.  He  was  fifteen,  now,  and  from  all 
the  hundreds  of  volumes  he  had  read  he 
had  acquired  a  vast  wealth  of  knowledge. 
Great  men  had  lived  in  the  world,  and  some 
of  them  had  left  great  books  behind  them; 
but  there  was  nothing  awe-inspiring  about 
any  of  these,  and  the  wonders  of  lay  con- 
ventionality had  long  since  lost  their  power 
to  charm  this  untamed  spirit  of  rebellion. 

Quimby  Sands  was  a  wonderful  boy. 
The  common  studies  were  a  waste  of  time 
with  him.  Tobacco,  intoxicating  drinks  and 
degenerate  associations  he  shunned  as  a 
pestilence.  With  the  increase  of  his  pay 
from  four  dollars  a  week  for  the  second 
six  months,  to  twelve  dollars  a  week  at 
the  end  of  five  years,  he  had  moved  into 
better  quarters,  employed  a  private  teacher 
twice  a  week,  dressed  in  the  best  style  and 
saved  several  hundred  dollars.  More  than 
once  he  shocked  his  teachers  by  cutting 
rough-shod  across  lots  to  the  conclusion  of 
some  seeming  deep  problem,  giving  the  an- 
swer ere  the  trained  scholar  completed  the 
entangling  plot.  He  soon  made  the  re- 
markable discovery  that  he  knew  more  than 
his  instructors,  who  could  not  endure  the 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  239 

humiliation  of  being  corrected  in  their  long 
drawn-out  meanderings  through  pages  of 
figures  for  a  result  a  mere  boy  could  achieve 
with  a  single,  lightning-like  flash  of  the 
brain.  This  he  could  do,  and  without  pencil 
or  chalk.  There  was  something  wrong  with 
the  systems  of  education.  This  was  an  im- 
portant discovery  and  he  would  read  more 
and  try  to  find  out  the  causes  of  things. 

After  thousands  of  years,  some  one  had 
made  the  unpopular  discovery  that  the 
world  was  round.  A  thing  he  knew  the 
first  time  he  went  in  swimming!  For  giv- 
ing this  valuable  astronomical  information 
to  the  world,  the  genius  who  had  dared  to 
announce  it  served  fourteen  years  in  prison 
as  his  reward!  Galileo  was  his  name,  and 
the  reason  he  was  imprisoned  was  that  his 
philosophy  upset  the  orthodox  theory  of 
Society,  which  society,  singularly  enough, 
held  that  the  world  was  flat! 

In  the  so-called  Natural  Histories  the 
skunk  was  described  as  being  capable  of 
"throwing"  his  fetid  fluid  by  some  unex- 
plained skunkesque  flip  of  the  tail,  and 
there  the  marvelous  explanation  ended. 
This  lie  everybody  parroted  and  the  skunk, 
the  farmers'  best  friend,  was  hunted  and 
killed  wherever  found.  He  knew  the  story 
was  a  lie ;  for  was  he  not  born  on  the  same 
farm  with  hundred  of  these  little  friends? 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  skunk  being  an 
animal  which  feeds  upon  natural  vermin, 


240  THE   TOECH   OF   REASON. 

did  nothing  offensive  if  left  unmolested  in 
Ms  nightly  quest  for  food ;  but  he  possesses 
a  perfect  double-barrel  atomizer,  and  when 
attacked,  and  in  self-defense,  is  able  to 
spray  a  small  circle  in  his  immediate  vicin- 
ity with  the  aforesaid  fetid  fluid,  and  with- 
out spilling  a  particle  of  the  fluid  on 
himself,  the  tail  playing  no  part  in  the 
performance,  whatsoever. 

From  elaborate  colored  plates  there  were 
printed  pictures  of  snakes  in  the  act  of 
climbing  trees  by  winding  their  bodies 
around  the  trunks!  How  silly!  And  the 
lazy,  "z-ee,  z-ee"  buzz  of  the  locust  in  the 
tree-tops,  as  he  opened  and  shut  the  trap- 
door of  his  wonderful  sounding-box  to  vari- 
ate  the  music  of  his  vibratory  snare-drums, 
they  said  was  the  working  of  some  inexpli- 
cable function  of  the  wings!  They  were  a 
lot  of  old  fossils  who  went  on  the  theory 
that  all  things  were  always  exactly  as  they 
are,  arriving  at  conclusions  from  cursory 
investigations,  at  best.  Or  else  their  de- 
ductions were  based  on  the  dead  and  un- 
scientific data  of  other  old  fossils  who  had 
dipped  their  pens  in  the  mystic  fog  of  su- 
perstition, charging  the  mystery  of  all  nat- 
ural phenomena  above  their  ossified  under- 
standing together  with  each  eonian  epoch 
to  the  "  frivolous  wrath  of  an  avenging 
God!" 

However  this  all  might  be,  Quimby 
Sands,  while  yet  a  sapling  youth,  knew  that 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  241 

the  world  had  accepted  as  fact  much  that 
was  untruth  and  great  misinformation.  If 
the  wise  men  would  lie  and  display  this 
ignorance  so  unmercifully  about  these  little 
things  of  which  any  farmer  boy  might  be- 
come informed,  what  might  be  expected  of 
them  when  it  came  to  the  big  problems  of 
our  social  and  political  life ! 

From  the  very  beginning  all  he  had  heard 
was:  "Have  faith  and  believe,  don't  ask 
questions,  believe  and  believe  it;  have  faith 
and  don't  doubt  it!"  But  he  had  doubted, 
and  they  had  planted  doubt  in  his  heart  the 
very  moment  they  commanded  him  to  be- 
lieve, and  so  he  became  an  investigator. 

Next,  he  fell  upon  the  histories;  the  en- 
cyclopedias, and  their  government  records, 
devouring  them  greedily.  They  were  horrors 
-simply  HORRORS!  If  the  lies  of  the 
"scientists"  had  nettled  him,  what  of  his 
shame  and  disgust  of  these  brutal  incarna- 
tions of  fiendish  inhumanity  among  men! 
He  found  the  histories — so-called — simply 
the  printed  accounts  of  bloody  deeds  of 
"war  heroes."  From  cover  to  cover  these 
horror  books  reeked  with  nothing  but  the 
red  and  stench,  the  blast  and  roar,  the 
groans  and  ruin  of  the  "glorious"  battle- 
field. Pictures  in  many  colors  there  were, 
of  the  hurricane  of  shot  and  shell,  when  the 
blistering  flare  of  the  red-throated  cannon 
vomited  hell-fire  into  the  blue  and  grey- 
garbed  breasts  of  the  sons  of  workingmen. 


242  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Here  was  a  double-page  plate  in  four 
colors  said  to  be  the  "faithful"  reproduc- 
tion of  a  certain  great  General's  " glorious" 
victory  over  another  General — presumably 
less  great !  Judging  it  from  its  color  scheme 
alone,  it  were  a  beautiful  picture.  It  was  a 
work  of  art  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  What 
both  impressed  and  shocked  the  boy  most 
was  the  artistic  and  ever-persistent  attempt 
at  the  portrayal  of  this  bloody  thing, 
-glory." 

Seated  upon  a  beautiful  white  charger 
in  the  foreground,  his  right  hand,  from 
which  a  broken  saber  is  seen  falling,  raised 
heroically  above  his  head,  is  pictured  a 
splendid  specimen  of  physical  manhood. 
He  wears  the  hated  grey!  On  his  manly 
head — now  thrown  back  painfully  in  the 
throes  of  death — rests  a  plumed  chapeau, 
and  from  the  middle  of  his  back,  dripping 
crimson  from  its  sharp  point,  protrudes  a 
foot  of  polished  steel. 

Just  fronting  this  white  charger,  and 
prancing  majestically  with  fore  feet  in  air, 
a  magnificent  black  stallion  champs  a  foam- 
ing bit,  bearing  a  gaunt  rider  in  the  North- 
ern blue.  The  bullet-like  head  is  hatless, 
showing  an  ugly  red  gash  from  the  stroke 
of  a  saber,  reaching  from  eye  through  a 
cleft  ear  and  losing  itself  far  behind  in  the 
scrubby  hair.  The  shabby  blue  uniform  fits 
sloppily  over  the  brawny  hulk.  The  teeth 
are  gnashed  together  inside  a  diabolical 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  243 

grin  which  matches  splendidly  the  devilish 
gleam  of  murder  in  the  bloodshot  eye. 

The  background  of  this  picture  is  nothing 
if  not  a  cyclonic  confusion  of  cannon  smoke, 
flying  limbs  and  arms,  splashing  brains  and 
spurting  gore,  with  myriads  of  fight-drunk 
madmen  slashing  at  each  other's  throats 
and  blindly  rushing  headlong  upon  bayonet 
and  sword. 

Over  this  turmoil  of  Christian  diabolism, 
and  with  staffs  leaning  aggressively  toward 
each  other  is  pictured  two  mottled  symbols 
of  soiled  fabric  waving  and  being  waved 
and  flaunted  in  the  demoniacal  visages  of 
these  insane,  unsane,  inhuman  idiots. 

The  handsome  white  charger,  jammed 
back  on  his  haunches,  is  being  seized  by  the 
bridle  by  a  half-naked  negro.  Spattered 
all  over  his  immaculate  side  is  to  be  seen 
the  red  brains  of  a  young  infantry-man  in 
grey,  whose  headless  body  is  crumpling  up 
in  the  act  of  falling  across  the  stomach  of  a 
wounded  comrade. 

Into  the  mouth  and  throat  of  another 
wounded  soldier,  whose  eyes  are  squirting 
from  their  sockets,  is  planted  the  right  hind 
hoof  of  the  prancing  black  steed  of  the  vic- 
torious blue.  Reaching  his  long  arm  far 
forward,  the  "heroic"  rider  is  in  the  act  of 
pushing  four  feet  of  crooked  steel  straight 
through  the  middle  of  his  unfortunate 
brother  in  grey.  It  was  beautiful !  It  was 
grand!  It  was  Heavenly! 


244  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

What  a  splendid  sight  1  What  an  in- 
spiration, he  thought,  to  the  "Toy  Scouts, " 
a  Christian  organization  among  children 
and  fostered  by  every  church  for  the  pur- 
pose of  teaching  boys  the  Heaven-hallowed 
glory  of  legalized  murder.  He  felt  sick  and 
guilty  as  he  read  on  through  the  bloody 
pages  of  these  morbid  narratives.  And 
when  he  had  finished  without  finding  any- 
thing relating  to  the  useful  people  of  the 
world,  except  that  they  mined  all  the  lead, 
made  all  the  powder,  fashioned  all  the  war 
implements  and  then  shed  all  the  blood, 
furnished  all  the  unmarked  graves,  all  the 
widows  and  orphans,  all  the  broken  homes, 
all  the  patriotism  but  received  none  of  the 
"glory,"  he  began  to  wonder  what  it  was 
all  about.  Then,  by  merest  accident,  he 
came  upon  "The  History  of  Civilization." 
(Julian  Laughlin,  St.  Louis.)  At  the  age  of 
eighteen  this  Apollonian  iconoclast  had 
sailed  around  the  world,  had  mastered  seven 
languages,  excelled  in  both  art  and  music, 
and  was  astonishing  the  civilized  world 
with  his  revolutionary  inventions  and  his 
unorthodox  revelations  regarding  organic 
life.  He  had  familiarized  himself  with 
four  thousand  different  religious  creeds, 
from  each  of  which  he  learned  that  every 
one  is  going  to  Hell  who  does  not  espouse 
that  very  particular  creed ! 

Becoming  historically  acquainted  with 
one  thousand  and  sixty-seven  only  living 
Gods,  all  of  whom  promised  everlasting 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  245 

damnation  to  the  unbeliever  of  their  own 
particular  doctrine,  the  problem  of  dodging 
the  fate  of  the  transgressor  under  such  cir- 
cumstances was  the  only  obstacle  to  his 
freedom  of  thought.  So  he  resolved  to  leave 
the  damning  of  souls  to  the  older  profes- 
sionals, while  he  went  into  the  God  business 
for  himself.  He  would  save  bodies  while 
they  yet  had  souls  in  them;  for  without 
healthy  bodies  there  could  not  be  souls 
worth  the  saving. 

Nineteen  only  sons  of  the  only  living 
God,  he  had  disinterred  in  his  travels 
around  the  world.  Jesus  Christ  being 
among  this  list,  and  all  having  been  cruci- 
fied by  the  " rabble."  Not  for  anything 
they  had  ever  done,  but  for  what  they  had 
said  that  was  either  misunderstood  or  else 
that  conflicted  with  what  some  one  else  had 
said,  usually  some  one  who  had  been  dead 
several  thousand  years! 

He  landed  in  St.  Louis  during  the  finan- 
cial panic  of  1907,  when  four  hundred  po- 
licemen were  stationed  in  the  basements  of 
the  several  banking  institutions,  armed  to 
the  teeth,  and  with  orders  to  shoot  to  kill 
should  a  "run"  be  started  by  the  deposi- 
tors. "John  Smith"  and  "John  Doe" 
cheques  were  the  only  available  medium  of 
exchange,  which  cheques  were  simply  so 
much  white  paper,  and  as  worthless  as 
gummed  labels  so  far  as  real  value  was 
concerned.  The  money  of  the  people  had  all 


246  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

been  stolen  or  hoarded  by  the  big  gamblers, 
and  when  the  bottom  fell  out  of  their  wa- 
tered stock  speculation  grafts,  their  "con- 
fidence" in  each  other's  confidence  games 
played  out,  and  money  was  said  to  be 
"tight!" 

Up  to  this  time  he  had  never  met  a  So- 
cialist, knew  little  of  them,  and  less  of  their 
program.  Had  he  been  in  touch  with  the 
new  political  economy  he  would  have  better 
understood  the  causes  of  panics  and  why 
the  subtle  games  of  the  wily  stock  robber 
sometimes  fail  in  the  midst  of  what  appears 
to  be  a  period  of  "unprecedented  pros- 
perity." Also  he  would  have  found  the 
real  essence  of  social  justice  awaiting  its 
application  to  modernized  civilization. 

He  had  his  hard-earned  money  in  the 
Missouri  Valley  Trust  Co.,  and  when  that 
bank  refused  to  honor  his  draft  for  fifty 
dollars,  he  called  on  the  president,  one  Mr. 
Eeckonbridge  Bones,  who  flatly  admitted  to 
him  the  unlawful  practices  of  his  institu- 
tion, pleading  guilty  to  it,  and  going  to  the 
limit  of  unreason  by  declaring  such  refusal 
to  be  an  act  of  outlawry,  he  wanted  to  know 
what  in  hell  there  was  going  to  be  done 
about  it!  The  words  of  the  smug  banker 
riled  the  honest  youth.  He  was  angry,  and 
he  could  feel  the  hot  blood  rushing  into  his 
face  at  the  defiance  of  the  old  villain  who 
was  literally  holding  him  up  as  a  wayfarer 
is  held  up  by  a  highwayman.  There  was  a 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  247 

scene,  which  wound  up  by  the  cheque  being 
honored  and  o.  k.'d  by  the  president,  the 
same  Mr.  Reckonbridge  Bones. 

No!  young  Sands  was  not  arrested!  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  invited  into  the  pri- 
vate office  of  the  chiefs,  where  he  was  prom- 
ised every  consideration  in  the  future,  pro- 
found regrets  having  been  expressed  at  the 
"slight  misunderstanding  that  had  just 
eventuated ! ' ' 

This  was  his  first  jolt.  This  was  what  a 
great  banking  house  could  do  to  the  Public ! 
This  was  what  the  police  were  for,  then! 
" Still  Bill"  gave  the  snap  away  to  him 
later,  after  they  became  acquainted,  for 
Bill  was  a  Socialist  Cop,  and  said  he  didn't 
give  a  damn  who  knew  it. 

Quimby  Sands  had  gotten  his  first  real 
slap  in  the  face  by  the  Mailed  Fist  of  Capi- 
talism. Of  course  the  system  had  hit  him 
before,  but  not  openly  and  in  broad  day- 
light. It  came  as  a  revelation  to  him.  It 
made  him  think,  and  in  the  thinking,  he 
thought  the  thoughts  of  the  rebel  and  his 
eyes  saw  red. 

Who  were  these  bankers,  anyway?  How 
came  they  to  be  so  rich  and  powerful  ?  How 
was  it  that  in  the  soft  hands  of  these  rich 
rascals  resided  so  much  power?  Around 
the  corner  in  his  great  red  touring  car  spun 
Ann  Souser  Brush,  the  South  Side  suds 
maker.  His  car  had  just  killed  a  man! 
Why  was  he  not  arrested?  Why  didn't 


248  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

the  panic  hit  him  ?  Then  there  was  Francis 
R.  Golliah,  the  multimillionaire  tax  dodger 
and  apostate  to  the  public  confidence,  call- 
ing for  a  thousand  dollars  in  gold! 

These,  and  others,  were  some  of  the  rebel 
thoughts  that  came  trooping  through  his 
brain.  He  saw  the  people  starving.  What 
was  meant  by  "hard  times'?"  Why  did 
that  big  furniture  house  fail?  Why  did 
the  Goosie-Rottenhimer  Shoe  Factory  shut 
down?  What  were  panics  for,  and  why 
were  they  permitted  in  a  Republic  ? 

These  things  began  to  interest  him. 
Theology  had  interested  him — mightily; 
but  theology  treated  of  things  after 
death.  Here  was  life,  and  the  problems 
of  life.  These  things  were  here  and 
now!  They  were  real!  They  dealt  with 
man's  means  of  life  here  on  earth,  and 
while  he  still  might  be  alive.  Funny  the 
school  books  never  taught  about  these 
things!  Somebody  was  running  the  gov- 
ernment, and  it  wasn't  run  right.  Who  was 
at  the  head  of  things,  anyway?  The  bank- 
ers seemed  to  be,  for  the  newspapers  were 
full  of  "finance"  and  "slump"  talk;  and 
there  was  a  whole  lot  about  the  tariff,  the 
trusts,  religious  revivals  and  how  a  work- 
ingman  might  live  comfortably  on  six  cents 
a  day.  To  make  a  long  story  short,  who- 
ever was  at  the  helm  were  either  fools  or 
criminals,  sleeping  drunkards  or  raving 
madmen,  and  it  was  time  for  a  change. 


THE    TORCH   OP   REASON.  249 

They  were  running  things  wide  open  and 
the  country  was  going  to  ruin.  Whoever  it 
might  or  might  not  be,  he  figured  it  out  that 
it  could  not  be  the  fault  of  labor,  for  he 
knew  there  wasn't  a  single  working  man  or 
woman  in  political  office  in  the  country. 

In  all  his  studies  he  had  begun  at  the 
wrong  end  of  life.  That  was  the  fault  of 
the  educators.  They  were  paid  to  teach 
only  what  supported  the  accepted  theories, 
which  theories  were  the  pillars  of  the 
Ruling  Regime.  It  was  beginning  to  get 
clear  to  him — this  social  and  political  struc- 
ture— wherein  operated  a  subtle  cleavage  of 
the  toiler  and  his  toil's  reward.  A  revolu- 
tion was  fermenting  within  him.  Not  from 
any  studied  or  natural  promptings  from 
within,  but  from  the  social  atmosphere 
without. 

Was  America  a  land  of  the  free?  It 
might  be  "The  home  of  the  brave,"  for 
one  had  to  be  somewhat  brave  to  live  at  all ; 
but  liberty,  as  it  really  existed,  consisted  of 
one's  ability  to  stay  out  of  jaill  Of  free- 
dom there  was  none.  Not  even  freedom  of 
thought.  To  be  a  thinker  was  to  be  an  un- 
desirable citizen;  and  an  intelligent  person, 
if  allowed  freedom,  was  a  menace  to  the 
stability  of  sound  government!  Sound  gov- 
ernment meant  the  same  as  sound  money. 
It  consisted  chiefly  of  sound!  This  "sound" 
the  working  man  got,  while  the  Kings  of 
High  Finance  got  the  cash! 


250  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

An  intelligent,  thinking  people  were  an 
undesirable  quantity  in  the  perpetuation  of 
such  a  reign,  for  only  through  the  ignorance 
of  a  misled  majority  could  such  a  pestilen- 
tial fraud  be  masqueraded  under  the  guise 
of  Democracy.  But  here  was  a  mental  out- 
law who  dared  to  break  that  law.  Here 
was  a  mere  youth  who  would  defy  that  law. 
One  who  dared  to  dream,  and  in  the  dream- 
ing to  create  a  new — a  rebel  law! 

"And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Quimby  Sands 
created,  educated  and  organized  "The  Cadet 
Democracy." 

Now  the  generally  accepted  interpreta- 
tion of  the  term,  "cadet,"  being  "young 
soldier,"  the  hair-splitters  and  jealous 
fault-finders  were  on  their  feet  to  cry  the 
name  down ;  but  after  awhile  some  one  with 
brains  and  a  little  moderation  looked  the 
word  up  in  Webster's  and  found  it  was  from 
the  French,  meaning  "younger  brother." 
Then  it  very  naturally  swept  the  country 
like  a  cloud  burst.  Also  the  Cadet  Demo- 
crats were  copied  abroad,  and  in  six  months 
it  was  a  world  movement,  out  of  which  was 
born  "The  International  Industrial  De- 
mocracy." This  latter  being  an  organiza- 
tion of  and  by  the  International  Socialist 
Party. 

Now  the  orthodox  cadet  hopes — some  day 
— to  become  a  great  killer  of  men — at  so 
many  dollars  per  month!  But  Quimby 's 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  251 

cadets  were  different.  They  comprised  the 
torch  and  flame  of  clean  young  manhood 
and  clean  young  womanhood  of  the  nation 
—and  the  world.  They  were  the  very  sinew 
and  soul  of  the  universe. 

There  were  no  dexterous,  one-hand  ciga- 
rette rollers,  crap  shooters,  or  weaklings  in 
the  Cadet  Democracy.  Hollow  chests  and 
sallow  faces  there  came  into  it,  but  they 
soon  developed  spirit,  pride,  and  a  manly 
wholesomeness,  that  defied  weakness;  and 
the  hollow  chests  became  full  chests;  the 
sallow  faces  turned  to  rose-cheeks,  and  the 
shiftless,  idle  boy  and  languid,  tired  girl, 
were  quickly  transformed  into  two  blos- 
soms of  budding  health  and  glowing 
virility. 

The  Cadet  Democrats  had  a  principle— 
a  principle  with  a  purpose.  They  were 
not  animated  with  the  blood-thirsty  aspira- 
tions of  the  soldier  cadet.  On  the  contrary, 
their  function  was  two-fold,  viz.:  to  draw 
the  deadly  charge  from  the  shotted  musket 
of  the  "Toy  Scouts,"  and  to  shoot  Socialist 
propaganda  into  the  plastic  brain  of  every 
child  and  youth — male  and  female — under 
twenty-one  years  of  age  in  the  nation.  For 
this  they  were  destined  to  become  famous 
as  the  ''Red  Cadets." 

E.  G.  Lewis,  founder  and  Mayor  of  Uni- 
versity City,  creator  of  the  biggest  printing 
establishment  in  the  world  and  founder  of 
"The  American  Woman's  League,"  and  the 


252  THE   TORCH   OF  REASON. 

"Women's  Democracy,"  was  not  a  Social- 
ist, though  he  was  destined  to  be.  He  was 
an  honest  man,  however,  and  he  owned  the 
St.  Louis  Evening  Moon.  So  when  the 
Cadet  Democrats  were  organized  and  the 
other  newspapers  "knocked,"  the  Moon 
was  fair.  This  aroused  the  ire  of  Pulse- 
squeezer's  Daily  Roast-Besmirch,  whose 
columns  fairly  reeked  with  slanderous  vi- 
tuperation, climaxing  by  pinning  this  "red" 
bouquet  on  the  school  children  of  St.  Louis, 
because  they  dared  to  organize  for  the 
study  of  life's  real  problems.  But  Quimby 
Sands  was  both  alive  and  alert  to  the  situ- 
ation, and  lost  no  opportunity  to  make  cap- 
ital out  of  any  move  the  enemy  might  make. 
He  knew  it  "was  an  intended  insult,  and  his 
blood  boiled;  but  he  sprang  into  the  fight 
like  a  young  panther;  and  in  a  letter  to  the 
Moon,  he  told  the  people  why  red  was  the 
symbol  of  Socialism,  explained  why  the 
banner  of  Jesus  was  of  a  "crimson  hue," 
pointed  out  that,  whereas  the  blood  of  all 
men  was  red,  it  proved  a  common  origin 
and  a  universal  brotherhood.  The  Moon 
printed  the  truth,  and  the  fight  was  over. 

The  boy  did  not  seek  the  fight,  but  once 
begun  he  would  either  win  or  else  go  down 
and  out  to  everlasting  defeat.  But  "de- 
feat" was  not  in  Sands'  vocabulary!  And 
Quimby  was  the  son  of  his  father! 

For  his  conversion  to  Socialism,  this 
young  fire  brand  gave  the  credit  to  Jack 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  253 

London.  Jack  had  made  him  think!  After 
reading  "THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD,"  "THE 
SEA  WOLF,"  and  "THE  WAR  OF  THE 
CLASSES,"  he  fell  upon  "MY  LIFE  IN  THE 
UNDER  WORLD,"  "THE  IRON  HEEL"  and 
"MARTIN  EDEN."  These  were  great  books. 
Especially  good  were  the  "THE  CALL  OF  THE 
WILD,"  "THE  IRON  HEEL"  and  "MARTIN 
EDEN."  Other  books  Jack  had  written, 
books  by  the  dozen,  including  "THE  GAME," 
"BURNING  DAYLIGHT"  and  "THE  KEMPTON- 
WACE  LETTERS,"  this  latter  being  a  wonder- 
ful love  classic. 

Jack  London,  in  his  estimation,  was  the 
greatest  living  literary  genius.  Here  at 
last  was  one  man  who  knew  how  to  write 
of  life — life  real,  and  red,  and  raw.  The 
more  he  read  London,  the  more  he  knew  of 
life;  and  the  more  he  knew  of  life  the  more 
he  loved  life  and  all  mankind.  But  more 
than  all  other  men  among  men  did  he  love 
Jack  London. 


The  years  came  and  went  and  the  "Red 
Cadets"  grew.  They  were  a  sure  enough 
organization  now.  In  America  there  were 
ten  millions  of  them!  Every  school  was  a 
chapter  house,  and  whenever  they  wanted 
new  books  or  new  studies,  they  called  a 
meeting  of  the  School  Board  and  got  what 


254  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

they  wanted.  If  the  School  Board  slept 
on  their  mandates  they  called  a  strike.  O 
you  couldn't  fool  the  kids!  Besides,  there 
was  "The  Red  Cadet/'  a  juvenile  daily 
newspaper,  edited  by  young  Sands  and 
which  went  to  the  home  of  every  citizen  of 
the  Cadet  Democracy;  said  what  it  pleased, 
defiantly  challenging  the  lying  old  party 
press  to  refute  it.  Nothing  could  stop  the 
"Red  Kids"  now.  Every  mother's  son  of 
them  wore  the  beautiful  red  and  gold  uni- 
form of  the  organization  on  all  public  oc- 
casions, and  a  handsomer  sight  was  never 
seen  than  when  at  the  inauguration  of  their 
first  president,  20,000  of  them,  uniformed 
and  equipped  for  "active  service,"  formed 
in  line  and  marched  to  the  City  Hall  in  St. 
Louis.  All  traffic  ceased.  The  police  tried 
to  clear  the  streets,  but  were  powerless.  It 
was  a  new  one  on  them!  It  commanded 
the  respect  of  the  press,  and  it  made  the 
grey  beards  sit  up. 

Quimby  Sands  was  an  inventive  genius. 
At  nineteen  he  invented  the  Comet,  and  her 
phenomenal  aerial  exploits  staggered  the 
world.  Also,  his  name  had  become  famous 
in  every  land  and  stories  were  written  of 
his  creations  in  every  tongue.  Presidents 
entertained  him;  kings  sought  him;  women 
worshipped  him  and  the  Church  feared 
him!  For  was  he  not  an  "incarnate  devil?" 
Look  at  his  Eed  Cadets! 


THE    TORCH    OF   REASON.  255 

With  the  established  record  of  being  the 
greatest  inventive  genius  the  world  had 
ever  seen,  small  wonder  that  capital — un- 
sought— came  flowing  in  on  him  when  he 
announced  to  an  awakening  world  his  in- 
tention to  build  a  sea-going  submarine 
utility  ship  propelled  directly  by  explosion. 
The  newspapers  got  hold  of  it,  and  every 
Sunday  supplement  blazed  with  four  col- 
ored cartoons  of  his  prowess  with  this  new 
fire-propelling  engine. 

Quimby  was  young,  and  when  the  pledged 
donations  came  flooding  in  upon  him  to  the 
appalling  amount  of  $20,000,000,  he  became, 
momentarily,  overwhelmed  with  elation.  It 
seemed  everybody  wanted  to  give  him  all 
the  money  they  had.  Everybody  wanted 
to  help  build  the  great  new  "  battleship, "  as 
they  would  have  it.  The  world  was  on  its 
knees  at  his  feet,  and  of  course  his  fortune 
was  made ! 

But  a  thing  happened  just  at  this  junc- 
ture that  put  him  to  the  crucial  test,  a  test 
that  unmasked  the  real  stuff  of  him  and 
denuded  his  grand  character  of  every  ves- 
tige of  capitalistic  veneer  of  which  from 
the  sudden  association  of  great  wrealth  he 
was  in  danger  of  becoming  enamored.  The 
devilish  cunning  with  which  monied  men 
cast  their  capitalistic  bread  upon  the  waters 
of  opportunity  was  revealed  to  him  with  all 
its  subtle  charlatanry. 


256  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

He  was  in  Boston  again.  In  the  office  of 
Young's  Hotel  he  was  in  the  act  of  shaking 
hands  with  Copper  King  Eawson,  who  had 
subscribed  liberally  to  the  "  fire-ship "  fund, 
when  a  bright-looking  lad  in  a  scarlet  and 
gold  uniform  sidled  up  and  slipped  a  copy 
of  the  "Red  Cadet"  into  Rawson 's  hand. 
Reporters  with  their  cameras  were  ever 
dogging  the  heels  of  the  great  stock  gam- 
bler, and  next  morning  all  the  Boston 
papers  carried  a  double-head  quarter-tone 
of  the  Rawson-Sands  hand-shaking,  with 
the  title  page  of  the  "Red  Cadet"  plastered 
all  over  the  picture  as  clear  as  a  black  eye. 
That  settled  it!  It  was  Quimby  Sands^ 
founder  of  the  "Red  Cadets/'  and  Socialist 
agitator,  being  entertained  like  royalty  by 
Tom  Rawson.  That  was  enough  to  know 
about  Rawson!  He,  too,  must  be  a 
Socialist ! 

The  "Red  Cadet"  was  known  from  Cape 
Horn  to  the  North  Pole,  and  from  the 
Philippines  to  Labrador  and  around  the 
world.  Loved  by  every  wholesome  boy  and 
girl  capable  of  intelligent  reasoning,  it  was 
the  most  popular  and  widely  circulated 
juvenile  magazine  on  earth.  Also  it  was 
the  most  bitterly  hated. 

"It  is  all  off,"  phoned  the  Boston  Capi- 
talist that  afternoon,  "I  have  stopped  pay- 
ment on  that  cheque  for  half  a  million. 
You  see,  I  can't  afford  to  have  my  name 
connected  with  -you  people.  And  had  I 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  257 

known  of  your  political  leanings,  you  could 
not  have  interested  me.  I  am  wiring  the 
truth  of  the  deception  to  the  Associated 
Press,  and  henceforth  I  am  not  to  be 
considered." 

One  week  from  that  announcement,  the 
entire  subscribed  fund,  with  one  single  ex- 
ception, had  been  withdrawn  in  like  man- 
ner. The  single  exception  being  $10,000  in 
gold  from  one  Joe  Sworoski,  Polish  tailor, 
who  had  known  young  Sands  when  he  lived 
in  the  attic  room  on  Grotton  street.  Also, 
the  good  old  man  had  loved  and  befriended 
him  in  many  ways.  Joe  was  a  Socialist; 
though  Quimby  up  to  this  point  had  been 
unaware  of  it,  and  when  the  boy  related  the 
circumstances  of  the  fund  retraction  mean- 
ness to  him,  the  old  man  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  laughed.  But  he  reassured 
him  that  all  would  come  out  right  in  the 
end,  and  that  nothing  could  prevail  to  keep 
him  down  now  that  the  common  people  had 
become  acquainted  with  the  charge  that  he 
was  a  Socialist. 

Here  it  was,  the  capitalist  mind  laid  bare. 
You  could  not  trust  them.  They  were  out 
for  the  coin,  and  whenever  they  loosened 
up  it  was  only  for  the  purpose  of  getting  a 
tighter  hold.  History  was  full  of  it — their 
duplicity — why  had  he  not  remembered. 
They  could  never  fool  him  again,  the 
cowards ! 


258  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Five  days  later  he  received  a  long,  en- 
couraging letter  from  the  secretary  of  the 
National  Executive  Committee  of  the  Ca- 
det Democracy,  promising  that  if  he  would 
write  up  the  Rawson  episode  for  the  "Red 
Cadet/'  that  paper  would  show  the  money 
changers  what  an  organized  nation  of 
school  children  could  do.  Accompanying 
the  letter  was  a  draft  for  $5,000,  subscribed 
by  the  Founders'  Key  at  St.  Louis,  and  the 
work  on  the  Agitator  began  forthwith. 

One  year  from  the  insidious  slander  by 
the  capitalist  press  that  Tom  Rawson  and 
the  young  American  wizard,  Sands,  were 
plotting  to  upset  the  existing  social  order 
and  establish  anarchy,  the  wonderful  new 
air-burning  submarine — the  Agitator — was 
launched  in  the  Mississippi  River.  By  this 
time  five  thousand  "Keys"  of  the  Cadet 
Democracy  had  been  established  in  the 
United  States;  the  school  boys  and  girls  of 
five  other  countries  had  placed  orders  for 
similar  ships;  but  not  a  single  Foundation 
of  the  International  Industrial  Democrats 
had  as  yet  been  established  in  the  country. 
"Foundations"  there  were  in  varied  pro- 
fusion— foundations  of  millions  of  dollars 
wrung  from  the  faces  of  the  mulcted  poor 
—the  Carnegie,  Rockefeller  and  Sage 
"Foundations,"  together  with  the  soft-soap 
Gullet  "shaving"  device  which  smelled  of 
Standard  Oil— "WORLD  CORPORA- 
TION." 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  259 

Fakes  and  shams  there  were  in  abun- 
dance ;  but  the  United  States  had  been  hum- 
bugged so  long  that  the  Light  of  Reason 
was  inky  midnight;  Truth  was  insanity, 
and  to  possess  knowledge  was  to  be  ''bug- 
house!" 

In  every  other  country  on  the  globe  the 
I.  I.  Ds.  were  thriving  and  slowly  but  sure- 
ly sucking  the  vitality  out  of  Capitalism; 
but  they  had  never  been  heard  of  here ! 

The  cruise  of  the  Agitator  down  the  Mis- 
sissippi and  around  the  Horn,  including  all 
the  island  possessions,  the  visit  to  Japan 
for  pictures  and  to  the  Alaska  Coast  con- 
sumed another  whole  year ;  and  when  father 
and  son  met  on  board  the  Red  Cadet's  queer 
new  ship  in  the  far  waters  of  Norton  Sound 
in  the  year  1910,  Quimby  Sands  had  passed 
the  twentieth  milestone.  He  stood  erect,  a 
tall,  broad-shouldered,  broad-minded  hand- 
some boy,  master  of  matter  and  an  uncom- 
promising social  Revolutionist  and  cham- 
pion of  the  rights  of  men. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  Socialist 
Party  of  Canada  at  its  1910  national  con- 
vention, adopted  a  resolution  pledging  the 
party  support  to  these  Co-operators,  thence- 
forth. Secretly,  its  members  were  in  sym- 
pathy to  a  man ;  but  their  assistance  had  all 
been  individual,  and  purely  voluntary.  Now 
the  Industrial  and  Cadet  Democratic  Co- 
operators  had  gone  on  record  as  part  and 
parcel  of  the  Socialist  Party  and  the  wrath 


260  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

of  the  plutes  knew  no  bounds.  Up  to  this 
stage,  the  Industrial  Democrats  were  not 
considered  a  political  organization. 

With  the  Socialists  pledging  their  united 
affiliation,  it  was  thought  best  to  hold  a 
national  convention  of  their  own,  when  a 
reciprocal  resolution  in  favor  of  Socialism 
and  the  Socialist  Party,  declaring  for  po- 
litical action,  might  be  passed.  The  date 
agreed  upon,  it  was  decided  to  favor  the 
Pacific  coast,  and  so  Victoria  was  settled 
on,  and  the  date  fixed  for  September  the 
8th.  Young  Sands,  founder  of  the  Red 
Cadets,  and  now  world-famed  scientist,  had 
promised  to  deliver  the  unity  address,  and 
on  the  night  of  September  7th,  after  the 
evening's  entertainment,  and  accompanied 
by  his  new-found  father,  Dr.  and  Toy 
Spanto,  Jack  Philips,  and  his  crew,  he  gave 
the  signal  to  Captain  Hautier,  and  the 
Agitator  turned  into  a  thing  of  hissing  fire 
and  sinking  into  the  rolling  waters  of  the 
northern  sea,  began  her  long  run  through 
the  Aleutian  Islands. 

"Quimby,  are  you  not  afraid  of  hitting 
an  island  or  a  sunken  reef,  running  at  such 
terrific  speed  in  the  night  and  under  water  ? 
There  are  thousands  of  tiny  islands  spat- 
tered all  over  this  course  on  the  map," 
Jason  cautioned,  as  his  son  pointed  to  the 
speed  dial  which  indicated  a  rate  of  two 
hundred  miles  an  hour. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  261 

"No,  father.  There  is  absolutely  no 
danger  of  such  an  ancient  calamity  befall- 
ing any  modern  ship  equipped  with  the 
finder  ray.  Look,"  the  boy  commanded, 
pointing  to  a  mirror-topped  table  in  the 
center  of  the  operating  room.  From  a 
small  tube  with  a  funnel-shaped  extremity, 
located  immediately  above  the  center, 
streamed  down  a  white  glow  that  flared  out 
over  the  polished  glass,  into  which  gazed  a 
young  sailor,  who  never  raised  his  eyes,  nor 
gave  the  slightest  sign  of  perception  to  any 
of  his  surroundings,  save  the  one  object  in 
the  glass  before  him.  He  was  the  helmsman, 
Billy  Self,  by  name,  and  one  of  the  few — 
the  very  few  men  among  men,  who  was  real, 
constant,  and  loyal.  Perhaps  this  may  be 
accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  Billy  was 
one-fourth  Cherokee  Indian.  Quimby  first 
met  him  in  St.  Louis,  and  made  the  dis- 
covery that  he  was  a  mechanical  genius,  and 
later  he  was  engaged  to  take  charge  of  the 
electrical  construction  of  the  Agitator,  and 
so  became  one  of  the  crew. 

Jason  bent  down  over  the  strange  con- 
trivance, and  there  in  the  mirror  beheld 
what  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  minia- 
ture mill-pond  full  of  islands,  with  a  firefly 
-belly  up— swimming  smoothly  near  the 
bottom  which  seemed  covered  with  tiny 
white  shells. 

"What  is  it,"  he  ventured,  finally,  "a 
game?"  The  eyes  of  Billy  Self  fell  a  little 


262  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

nearer  the  mill-pond,  and  the  corners  of 
Quimby's  mouth  almost  suggested  a  smile 
as  he  replied:  "No,  father,  not  exactly, 
see!  It  is  the  Agitator,  and  this  is  the 
ocean.  See  how  our  fire  lights  up  the  bot- 
tom? And  this  is  the  finder  ray.  We  are 
now  off  Pt.  Romanof ,  where  the  north  fork 
of  the  Yukon  empties  into  Pastol  Bay.  And 
that  thing  that  looks  like  a  trip-hammer  off 
there  to  the  northwest,  is  St.  Lawrence 
Island.  This  is  Nunivak,  and  yonder  there 
are  the  Priblofs  covered  in  springtime  with 
seal." 

Jason  bent  closer  to  view  the  incompre- 
hensible phenomenon  before  him,  his  pride 
in  his  son  mingled  with  the  bewilderment  of 
each  new  mystery,  so  overwhelmed  him  that 
for  some  minutes  he  was  speechless. 

"It  is  all  very  simple,  father.  Just 
imagine  you  are  a  mile  above  us  and  peer- 
ing down  with  eyes  that  pierce  the  dark- 
ness like  the  radium  glow  you  see  there  in 
the  mirror;  things  would  look  precisely  as 
they  do  in  that  mill-pond,  as  you  call  it. 
It  is  the  angular  ray  that  is  doing  the  look- 
ing down  instead  of  you  in  this  case,  and 
what  it  sees  it  reflects  on  the  lens  of  a 
powerful  vitascope,  which,  in  turn,  projects 
the  picture  down  that  tube  by  means  of  a 
thousand  tiny  mirrors  and  through  a  lens 
to  the  table,  and  what  you  see  before  you  is 
the  result.  Thus  we  have  the  remarkable 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  263 

ability  to  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us, 
so  to  speak. 

"Just  get  a  firm  hold  on  something  now, 
keep  your  eyes  on  the  mill-pond,  and  I  will 
show  you  something. "  So  saying,  the  son 
drew  a  small  disk,  the  size  of  a  silver  dol- 
lar, from  his  pocket,  and  placing  it  to  his 
lips,  though  the  captain  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen,  commanded:  "Captain  Hautier, 
circle  the  ledge  on  the  port,  at  three  fathom, 
full  speed." 

"Ay,   ay,   sir."     And  back  came  the 
order : 

"Billy,  three  fathom — around  that  knob 
on  port — wide  open." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  as  Billy  Self  laid  his 
fingers  to  the  key  board  at  the  edge  of  the 
table.  There  was  a  veering  and  a  forward 
lurch,  when  the  ship  seemed  to  slip  from 
under  foot,  and  rolling  to  her  left  side  until 
her  decks  were  vertical,  spun  around  the 
small  island  and  .picking  up  her  former 
course  raced  away  like  a  porpoise,  throw- 
ing a  shaving  of  boiling  water  and  white 
steam  a  thousand  feet  in  the  air.  There  it 
was  in  the  mirror  as  clear  as  sunshine ;  and 
there  was  the  long  stream  of  white  foam 
stretching  far  behind,  like  a  necklace  of 
pearls  girdling  the  green  billows  as  the 
ocean 's  breast  rose  and  fell  to  the  even  pulse 
of  the  harnessed  sea. 

"We  are  now  traveling  at  the  rate  of 
five  hundred  miles  an  hour,"  explained  the 


264  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

inventor  prince,  "and  you  must  know  that 
because  of  the  fierce  blast  of  exploding  gas 
coupled  with  our  great  speed,  we  are  not 
touching  the  water  at  all.  At  this  rate  we 
should  arrive  off  Seattle  in  eight  hours. 
But  we  are  in  no  such  a  hurry." 

A  few  words  to  the  commanding  officer 
as  before,  and  the  Agitator  settled  back  into 
her  former  position  near  the  bottom  and 
took  up  her  old  gait  of  two  hundred  miles. 

It  was  a  wonderful  performance;  but 
what  impressed  Jason  Sands  more  than 
everything  else  was  the  perfect  harmony, 
discipline,  and  the  unaccountable  just- 
rightness  of  everything  in  connection  with 
his  son's  strange  ship.  There  was  no  con- 
fusion. Everyone  knew  everything.  Every- 
thing worked  without  friction.  It  was 
neither  too  hot  nor  too  cold,  and  all  were 
well  and  happy. 

There  was  a  something  in  the  pregnant 
atmosphere  of  that  wonder-craft  that  had 
not  as  yet  been  explained.  There  was  a 
mystery  about  it,  a  sweet,  aesthetic  ego  that 
seemed  to  guard  each  truant  vibration  with 
the  mastery  of  infinite  love  and  perfect 
peace. 

The  very  walls  had  ears. 

There  were  no  loud  shoutings,  yet  officers 
conversed  freely  though  separated  and  from 
any  part  of  the  vessel. 

Light  was  everywhere  whenever  wanted, 
but  of  lamps  there  were  none. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  265 

Music  played  out  of  the  very  air  one 
breathed,  and  sleep  came  at  the  bidding — 
sleep  that  was  sound,  and  dreamless,  and 
sweet. 

What  did  it  all  mean?  Jason  Sands 
would  know!  but  it  was  midnight,  his  sec- 
ond night  on  board  a  floating  heaven — a 
heaven  built  out  of  the  brain  of  his  son — 
his  only,  and  greatly  beloved  son. 

His  stateroom  was  like  the  inside  of  a 
huge  eggshell,  standing  on  its  thickest  end, 
and  hanging  in  his  cot  from  the  dome  above, 
was  like  a  canary  on  a  swinging  perch  in 
a  cage. 

No  sooner  had  he  stretched  himself  in 
repose,  than  on  came  the  restful  garnet- 
emerald  tint,  and  from  somewhere  far  dis- 
tant came  tinkling,  liquid  sounds,  the  same 
sounds  and  the  same  tint  that  he  had  mar- 
veled at  the  night  before. 

He  could  smell  the  salten  odors  now,  and 
as  he  strove  to  keep  awake  that  he  might 
listen  to  the  sweet,  faint  music  and  view 
the  mellow  tints,  the  colors  faded  away, 
leaving  an  azure  sky  with  the  stars  all  in 
their  places,  and  out  of  which  on  the  Eas- 
tern horizon  rose  the  yellow,  Northern 
moon. 

Mountains,  snow-capped,  appeared  as 
the  moon  got  higher,  and  a  delightful  cool 
pervaded  the  night.  He  thought  of  the  old 
mountain  home  of  his  blighted  childhood; 
but  the  music  was  sweet,  and  the  thoughts 


266  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

did  not  make  him  sad.  He  thought  of  the 
storm  on  the  lake  with  his  brothers  at  dead 
of  night,  and  of  the  haven  of  refuge  in  the 
Karns  cove;  of  Ben  Page  and  the  "Broken 
Bone,"  and  of  the  night  on  the  shelf  with 
the  wolves.  They  were  all  fond  memories 
now;  and  -as  the  playing  ceased  and  the 
darkness  grew  apace,  heavier  hung  the  rest- 
ful lids,  and  sleep,  profound,  and  peaceful 
sleep,  huddled  him  in  her  mystic  arms,  as 
a  mother  fondles  upon  her  soft  bosom  the 
cheek  of  her  slumbering  babe. 

"More  inventions,"  explained  his  son 
next  morning.  "Inventions,  not  for  the 
enslaving  of  men,  but  for  man's  mastery  of 
the  Universe." 

"To  enjoy  the  day,  man  must  be  wakeful; 
but  at  nighttime  he  should  sleep.  In  order 
to  sleep  fully  and  properly,  the  senses  must 
be  in  tune  with  the  peculiar  chemistry  of 
the  night — darkness.  The  very  name- 
Day,  is  enough  in  itself  to  suggest  activity ; 
while  to  speak  of  Night  is  to  suggest  rest 
and  sleep,"  he  said.  "Imagine  one  sleeping 
perfectly  in  a  great  city! 

"Sleep  is  as  essential  as  breath,  and  the 
generation  which  gets  little  of  sleep  gets 
little  of  life.  I  have  found  a  way  of  sepa- 
rating the  physical  consciousness  from  the 
intangible,  or  sub-consciousness,  by  creating 
a  harmony  between  the  cellular  activity  of 
the  living  body  and  the  inert  nebular  ego. 

"The  tints,  the  stars  and  moon  and  the 


THE   TORCH    OF   REASON.  267 

mountains  you  saw  were  simply  pictures 
thrown  on  the  transparent  walls  of  your 
room  from  the  outside,  and  what  appeared 
like  music  was  played  on  the  fine  metal 
wires  attuned  to  catch  the  minute  strains 
of  melodies  played,  not  by  human  hands, 
but  by  the  cycles  of  the  living  spheres. 

"My  inventions  are  not  contrary  to  Na- 
ture, but  in  accord  with  Nature. 

"Man  has  strayed  far  from  life  because 
he  has  strayed  far  from  Nature.  I  would 
lure  him  back  to  the  fold  by  transporting 
him  far  remote  from  the  deadly  crash  and 
maddening  roar  of  his  congested  cities,  and 
so  I  have  made  a  sleeping-room  that  pro- 
duces this  desired  effect.  All  may  possess 
them  when  things  are  made  for  use  instead 
of  for  profit — and  that  day  is  at  hand." 

They  were  among  the  Aleutians  now,  the 
day  was  beautiful,  and  the  Agitator  was 
flitting  in  and  out  among  the  bays  and  small 
islands,  running  at  low  speed,  and  only  half 
submerged.  The  picture  men  were  on  deck, 
and  the  ship  was  being  maneuvered  skill- 
fully among  a  herd  of  walrus,  when  a  low, 
deep  rumbling,  like  the  distant  reverbera- 
tions of  a  world  exploded  from  within,  rose 
above  the  surging  breakers.  The  sea  parted 
and  rolled  back  beneath  the  Agitator's  very 
feet.  Up  from  the  nether  regions  belched 
a  deluge  of  molten  vomit,  as  with  the 
travail  of  Hell  a  redhot  mountain  reared 
itself  out  of  the  bubbling  ocean — another 


268  THE  TORCH   OF   REASON. 

obsidian  babe  born— the  son  of  a  Vulcan 
sire. 

Jason  Sands  and  his  son  were  seated  in 
the  latter's  private  laboratory  when  the 
first  murmurings  of  the  eruption  were  re- 
corded on  the  delicate  instruments  of  that 
wonder-chamber.  Simultaneously  with  this 
the  marine  seismograph  became  violently 
agitated  and  a  sharp,  bell-like  signal  rang 
throughout  the  vessel.  At  a  key-board 
aboTTe  which  was  the  one  word:  "Comet," 
flew  the  right  hand  of  the  young  scientist, 
with  the  left  he  jerked  down  a  lever,  la- 
beled: "Full  Speed  Ahead." 

"Hang  on,  father,"  he  cried,  sharply, 
"the  doors  of  Hell  are  opening  right  under 
us,  for  this  is  the  so-called  volcanic  belt, 
where  the  number  of  these  islands  fluctu- 
ates over  night  like  the  price  of  foodstuffs 
on  the  stock  exchange.  I've  sent  up  the 
Comet  for  pictures,  and  as  soon  as  we're 
straightened  out  we'll  go  on  deck  and  see 
what  a  new  earth-babe  looks  like  all  warm 
and  smoking.  I  have  never  seen  one,  and 
what  we  may  see  here  in  the  reflector  is  not 
satisfying.  Come  on,  now,  here  we  are,  as 
motionless  as  the  progress  of  the  St.  Louis 
Million  Population  Club." 

Sure  enough,  when  they  reached  the  deck 
the  ship  was  rolling  stationary  on  the  sun- 
silvered  sea,  and  the  sight  of  the  flashing, 
fluttering  scooting  little  Comet,  dodging 
hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke  and  fall- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  269 

ing  cinders,  as  she  gathered  moving  pic- 
tures of  the  wonderful  scene,  was  a  treat 
better  imagined  than  the  butchery  of  words 
can  describe. 

At  a  distance  of  three  miles  to  windward, 
the  intense  heat  could  be  felt,  as  the  stream 
of  glowing  lava  spewed  out  over  the  crest 
of  the  great  cone  and  into  the  water.  Into 
the  heavens,  as  from  the  stack  of  a  mam- 
moth locomotive,  shot  up  a  tower  of  black 
smoke  and  red  stones,  while  far  to  the 
south-east  spread  out  an  ever- widening 
cloud  of  fine,  white  ashes,  hanging  like 
open-work  lace  on  the  evenly  moving  wind. 
And  with  the  sun  shining  through  this  veil 
of  earth-ashes  was  effected  an  aurora  bore- 
alis,  rivaling  in  magnificence  the  wondrous 
beauties  of  the  boreal  circle.  Who  shall 
arise  to  disprove  it  when  the  scientist  who 
is  not  for  sale,  announces  to  the  world  that 
this  is  the  Auroro  Borealis  that  for  centu- 
ries has  lured  the  adventurer  to  death  among 
the  Arctic  snows?  We  shall  see  ere  this 
narrative  ends.  And  we  shall  know  the 
mysteries  of  the  North  Pole:  for  be  it 
known  that  the  Agitator  can  sail  as  smooth- 
Iv  and  as  swiftly  through  a  mountain  of 
ice  as  through  the  tropical  waters  of  the 
Torrid  Zone.  Also  we  shall  know  the  secret 
of  the  hidden  fires  under  the  earth  and 
under  the  sea.  The  History  of  the  histories 
shall  be  opened  and  the  diary  of  Nature 
read  in  the  Light  of  Reason — rebellious, 
evolutionary,  scientific,  revolutionary 
Reason. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  JUVENILE  DEMOCRACY. 

Every  eye  with  gladness  beaming, 
With  the  love-light  flashing — gleaming — 
Banners,  one-hued,  all  astreaming 
In  the  Dawn  of  Brotherhood ! 

With  her  blood-red  banner  waving  and 
the  great  -finder  ray  feeling  out  the  channel 
in  the  strange  waters,  the  Agitator,  her  aux- 
iliary, the  Comet,  gracefully  flying  on 
ahead,  slipped  into  Queen  Charlotte  Sound 
through  Georgia  Strait  and  dropped  her 
feet  into  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  Victoria 
harbor. 

Once  departed  from  the  zone  of  quake 
and  volcano,  the  route  had  lain  hard  by  the 
picturesque  Alaskan  Peninsula  through 
Shelikof  Strait  and  among  the  wave-eaten 
crags  all  the  way  to  the  Beautiful  British 
Columbia  city. 

From  the  mainland  an  Empire  cheered 
them— an  Empire?  Nay,  a  Democracy! 

From  every  harbor  craft  colored  lights 
and  bunting  floated  until  it  seemed  that  all 
Canada,  aflame  with  red,  had  poured  out 
her  citizenry  to  do  them  honor. 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  in  mighty 
chorus  cleft  the  air  to  the  fiery  strains  of 
the  Marseillaise,  played  on  a  thousand 
bands.  Above  the  human  forest  soared  the 

(270) 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  271 

beautiful  little  aluminum  Comet,  playing 
her  powerful  searchlight  in  all  the  colors  of 
the  rainbow,  and  illuminating  the  harbor, 
while  a  lighter  from  H.  M.  S.  Homewrecker 
came  alongside  to  take  the  Agitator's  party 
ashore. 

The  industrial  Democrats,  or,  as  they 
were  more  commonly  called,  The  Co-opera- 
tors, had  just  completed  their  magnificent 
new  Coliseum  in  Victoria  City,  and  in  it 
were  gathered  twenty  thousand  eager  souls. 
Each  fired  with  the  new  enthusiasm,  and  all 
animated  with  a  single  motive — a  single 
purpose.  It  was  a  grand  pageant.  No  con- 
quering hero  of  old  was  ever  more  honored. 
For  weeks  the  entire  press  of  the  Dominion 
had  been  flevoting  pages  to  the  exploits  and 
successes  of  the  Agitator,  and  now  it  was 
the  survivors  of  the  Aurora  and  the  spat 
with  the  captain  of  the  Terror  only 
yesterday. 

Across  the  border  in  the  United  States, 
little  or  nothing  was  known  of  them.  The 
press  of  that  judge-ravaged  land  being 
owned  from  editor  to  "devil"  by  the  com- 
mercial interests,  the  people  never  heard 
much  of  the  Socialists  and  Co-operators  but 
knocks.  So  when  the  Industrialists  carried 
Canada  for  Socialism,  the  facts  were 
adroitly  and  malevolently  misrepresented 
or  diplomatically  suppressed  through  the 
old  familiar  journalistic  trick  of  the  "con- 
spiracy of  silence." 


272  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

In  the  Coliseum  there  were  no  curtains, 
flies,  wings  or  other  scenery.  Instead  of 
these  there  were  contrived  vapor  rays,  upon 
which  played  the  most  marvelous  color 
effects  from  picture  machines — radium 
lighted.  It  was  like  the  thick  veil  of  a  col- 
ored mist  possessing  the  power  of  the 
mirror  to  reflect  whatever  the  lens  might 
throw  upon  it.  Where  the  drop  curtain 
should  have  been,  spread  out  the  restful 
tinted  glow  of  the  strange  garnet-emerald 
effect  which  had  so  puzzled  Jason  Sands 
in  his  stateroom  on  the  Agitator.  Not  a 
lamp  was  visible  in  all  that  great  playhouse ; 
but  light,  mellow  and  soothing,  blended  ar- 
tistically throughout  the  auditorium  in 
every  known  color  effect,  or  melted  into 
midnight  at  the  whim  of  a  keyboard  opera- 
tor in  the  "light-house." 

From  open  spaces  all  around  the  upper 
dome  the  pure  air  came  in  through  the  same 
fine  white  silk  screens  through  which  the 
salten  odors  had  blown  in  Jason's  quarters, 
when  he  first  awoke  in  his  swinging  cot  in 
Norton  Sound.  The  white  silk  screens  be- 
ing simply  thin  shafts  of  electro-radium 
through  which  the  cool  winds  streamed, 
warming  as  they  streamed.  It  was  the  new 
method  of  heating  and  lighting  that  had 
come  to  take  the  place  of  coal  and  other 
dirty  fuel.  It  was  one  of  the  inventions  of 
a  Red  Cadet,  whom  the  Canadian  Govern- 
ment had  instantly  recognized  and  honored ; 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  273 

for  things  under  the  rule  of  the  Co-opera- 
tive Democracy  were  created  for  use  and 
not  for  commercial  exploitation,  and  Gen- 
ius, for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
race,  was  honored  and  set  free.  The  new 
discovery,  called  volt-o-sheen,  was  inex- 
pensive once  the  proper  chemicals  were  set 
in  action,  and  lasted  a  lifetime.  The  smoke 
nuisance  was  ahated,  coal  mining  was  abol- 
ished, and  the  race  lifted  up  a  long  jump 
from  poverty,  toil  and  disease. 

All  the  new  houses  of  the  I.  T.  Ds.  were 
equipped  with  volt-o-sJieen,  and  through 
corrugated  floors  all  dust  and  bad  odors 
were  pumped  off,  the  suction  being  regu- 
lated to  correspond  with  the  intake  of  pure 
air  at  the  dome.  This  pure  air,  coming  in 
through  the  electro-radium  screens,  was 
heated  to  the  right  temperature,  and  drawn 
straight  down  and  out  through  thin  slits 
under  foot,  then  off  through  other  white- 
hot  rays,  thus  performing  the  lung  service 
of  those  within  and  returning  to  commingle 
with  and  resume  its  travel  through  space, 
purified  and  revitalized.  No  dust  ever  rose 
above  the  soles  of  the  feet,  and  the  air  was 
always  sweet  and  pure  in  the  theaters  and 
other  buildings  of  the  new  Democracy. 
Brooms  and  vacuum  cleaners  had  been 
swept  away,  and  housewives  were  no  longer 
coal-stoking,  broom-wielding  soldiers  of 
drudgery. 


274  THE   TORCH    OF   REASON. 

During  the  wait  before  the  lecture  the 
audience  was  treated  to  thirty  minutes  ex- 
hibition of  motion  pictures  and  music.  The 
lights  went  out,  and  on  a  screen  of  non- 
illuminous  vapor  played  the  tragedy  of  the 
Yukon  River,  the  rescue,  the  eruption,  and 
the  birth  of  the  new  island  among  the 
Aleutians.  Next  followed  some  beautiful 
panoramics  from  Japan.  Then  came  a 
mighty  explosion  of  human  enthusiasm, 
when,  and  without  warning,  on  came  the 
lights  to  reveal  the  stage  a  horticultural 
vista  of  floral  effulgence. 

Seated  in  couples  where  tropical  verdure 
stirred  to  the  wing-flittings  of  humming 
birds,  were  a  thousand  Red  Cadets  in  their 
uniforms  of  scarlet  and  gold;  and  in  the 
center  of  all,  amid  festoons  of  gorgeous 
red  roses  sat  the  modest  young  scientist. 
Between  the  Governor-General  of  the  Do- 
minion of  Canada  and  the  Mayor  of  Vic- 
toria he  was  seated — the  boy  scientist,  the 
son  of  Jason  Sands.  He  it  was  whose  brain 
revolt  had  wrought  with  genius  to  free  his 
class  and  lift  humanity  up  and  out  of  the 
hell  of  wage-slavery. 

The  Mayor  of  the  city  was  the  chairman 
of  the  evening,  and  he  lost  no  time  in  in- 
troducing the  Governor-General.  They 
were  both  social  revolutionists,  and  their 
speeches  were  short,  rapid  and  full  of 
humor  and  good  cheer.  The  Governor- 
General  paid  the  Red  Cadets,  of  whom 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  275 

Quimby  Sands  was  chief,  the  compliment 
of  having  made  it  intellectually  possible  for 
Canada  to  become  one  of  the  first  Socialist 
Democracies  on  earth.  And  then  came  the 
introduction. 

With  the  pronouncing  of  his  name  the 
tall  athletic  figure  of  the  young  god-man 
glided  swiftly  forward  to  begin  his  address. 
The  storm  of  applause  that  greeted  him 
amounted  almost  to  a  frenzy.  From  his 
box  on  the  right  Jason  Sands  could  look 
out  over  the  vast  throng  that  filled  every 
inch  of  space  in  that  huge  hall.  "To  see 
my  son,"  he  exclaimed  exultantly  to  him- 
self, "to  see  my  son,  my  boy!  My  boy!" 
He  was  thinking  of  the  old  days  once  more, 
days  of  barbaric  insecurity  and  the  battle 
of  life-and-death,  when  after  having  been 
left  stranded  in  the  Albion  House  in  Hali- 
fax, Novia  Scotia,  by  that  old  fraud,  "Prof. 
Harrington,"  he  had  fought  a  prize  fight 
with  one  Scanlon,  in  an  old  barn  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  city,  to  get  money  with 
which  to  pay  the  skipped  board  bill  and  to 
get  out  of  town.  Wherever  this  old  faker 
acquired  the  bogus  title  of  "Prof."  was  a 
mystery.  He  always  reminded  Jason  of 
Davy  Crockett's  "  Thimblerig, "  and 
palmed  himself  off  on  the  unsuspecting 
public  as  a  sort  of  nut-shell  magician, 
barn-storming  country  towns  where  he  held 
forth  his  prize-package  performances  be- 
decked in  a  seedv  Prince  Albert  coat  from 


276  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

which  dangled  a  glittering  array  of  brass 
medals  and  French  paste. 

Jason  had  first  met  the  sleek  villain  in 
the  Victoria  Hospital.  Blood  poisoning 
they  said  it  was,  and  it  had  resulted  from 
overmuch  meat  eating.  Here  "Thimblerig" 
had  fled  for  safety  and  to  recuperate  from 
a  near-lynching  from  which  he  had  escaped 
in  his  own  home  town.  Jason,  who  was 
slow  to  find  out  wrong  in  men,  had  helped 
the  "snap"  showman  on  to  his  feet  with 
his  last  dollar,  only  to  be  " touched,"  then 
later  deserted  by  him  for  his  trouble. 

As  his  son  stood  there  bowing  to  the 
thunderous  roar  of  applause,  he  could  not 
help  contrasting  the  scene  with  the  dingy 
suffocating  hives  in  which  he  had  sung 
while  traveling  with  the  aforesaid  Harring- 
ton "straw"  outfit.  Also  his  thoughts  re- 
verted to  the  Victoria  Hospital,  where  they 
had  put  him  to  bed  in  a  ward  cot  upon 
which  had  died,  only  the  night  before,  a 
sailor  whose  hip  had  been  eaten  out  with  an 
abscess.  The  bed  had  not  been  "changed," 
and  when  he  tried  to  turn  over  he  experi- 
enced a  sensation  akin  to  what  might  be 
imagined  of  one  lying  on  a  sheet  of  Tangle- 
foot fly  paper.  He  threw  off  the  covers. 
The  stench  was  awful!  With  an  heroic 
effort  he  rolled  out  of  bed,  the  sheet  and 
mattress  still  pasted  to  his  side,  and  there 
heaped  up  in  a  thick  puddle  on  the  floor, 
and  hanging  in  great  gobs  from  the  under- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  277 

side  of  the  mattress,  was  the  accumulated 
pus  from  the  dead  sailor's  abscess,  alive 
and  squirming  with  maggots. 

This  was  nothing  like  his  thistle-down 
dream  while  swinging  in  that  fluffy  bird's 
nest  cot  on  the  Agitator,  he  decided.  How- 
beit,  this  was  Capitalism.  But  the  day  of 
Capitalism  was  fast  fading  into  oblivion. 

When  he  thought  of  the  perfect  health 
of  his  son  and  the  crew  of  the  Agitator,  he 
could  not  help  turning  to  the  other  pictures 
back  in  the  departed  years,  when  he  had 
been  caught  in  the  seething  vortex  of  Chi- 
cago's insane  swirl.  There,  packed  in  a 
lodging  house  with  hundreds  of  others  like 
canned  fish,  all  the  beautiful  theory 
of  "free-born  Americanism"  had  been 
squelched  in  him.  And  between  mal-prac- 
tice,  which  operated  to  abort  human  souls, 
and  political  graft,  the  function  of  which 
was  to  suck  blood  from  the  living  progeni- 
tors of  those  throttled  souls,  was  welded  the 
middle  link,  poverty,  in  the  awful  social 
chain. 

Next  it  was  the  army  of  the  unemployed. 
Sandwiched  among  the  cliff-dwelling  hordes 
down  in  the  congested  rookeries  of  the  un- 
der-world, he  had  seen  sick  babies  literally 
eaten  alive  with  rats  and  flies;  while  on 
couches  of  dirty  straw  sprawled  scurvy 
dogs  licking  the  oozing  pus  from  the  syphi- 
litic sores  of  these  dead  babies'  mothers. 


278  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

He  contrasted  all  this  with  the  beautiful 
homes  of  the  Co-operators  and  the  happy 
picture  before  him;  but  the  old  drama  per- 
sisted. He  closed  his  eyes  that  the  trans- 
position might  be  the  clearer,  and  the  pic- 
tures flashed  forth  as  sharp  as  cameos. 
There  were  the  ups  and  down  of  toil  and 
idleness;  jobs  and  no  jobs.  Working  half 
time  or  loafing,  with  the  annual  rush  at  end 
of  season.  Then  his  genius  would  revolt 
and  with  his  scant  savings  he  would  make 
an  investment.  But  feasting  on  fat  viands 
during  the  successful  lulls  between  periods 
of  panic  and  poverty,  only  served  to  sand 
his  rebel  brain  with  more  rebellion;  and 
when  once  again  the  unequal  circumstances 
of  an  unjust  environment  matched  him  to 
battle  with  the  Pale  Lady  of  Starvation,  he 
called  her  fake  "equality"  bluff  with  a 
challenge  of  protest  surcharged  with  trea- 
son and  red  revolution.  Then  it  was  that 
he  would  mount  a  soap-box  on  the  street 
corner,  and  with  the  irrefutable  logic  of 
Socialism  furiously  harangue  the  ignorant 
multitude  whose  votes  outnumbered  those 
of  their  masters  ten  to  one. 

But  after  suffering  the  taunts  and  jeers 
of  these  besodden  slaves  until  forbearance 
ceased  to  be  a  virtue,  he  would  disappear 
from  these  pestilential  fens  of  brutish  toil 
and  criminal  fecundity,  and  peacefully  in 
his  cabin  on  the  mountain  side  he  would 
sleep  long  and  sweetly  to  the  roar  of  tern- 


THE    TORCH   OF    REASON.  279 

pest  and  crash  of  thunder,  or  to  the  melan- 
choly hoot  of  the  glare-eyed  owl.  Twere 
music  in  his  ears,  he  remembered,  con- 
trasted with  those  bra  in- wrecking  bedlams 
of  the  urban  hells  in  which  he  had  stifled. 

While  the  joy-mad  crowd  yelled  and 
clapped  he  went  as  in  a  dream  through  the 
whole  frightful  drama  back  to  the  mother, 
then  again  to  their  boy  who  was  bowing 
and  smiling  to  the  mightiest  audience  Jason 
had  ever  seen.  He  remembered  the  promise 
he  had  made  to  her  as  she  lay  with  glazed 
eyes  in  her  last  hour  of  earthly  pain.  He 
had  kept  that  promise,  and  surely  he  had 
not  lived  in  vain.  All  his  suffering  was 
nothing  contrasted  with  the  joy  of  that  glad 
moment.  Slavery  in  their  shoe  factories 
from  Lynn  to  San  Francisco,  and  including 
the  foul  "penitentiaries"  of  St.  Louis,  was 
nothing;  frost  was  nothing;  hunger  was 
nothing,  and  had  he  lost  both  his  good  legs 
in  the  wolf  fight,  still  would  he  now  be 
supremely  happy  that  he  had  lived  to  feast 
his  eyes  on  the  proud  scene  before  him. 
There  in  the  sinewy  tower  of  youthful 
virility  among  those  flowers,  he  saw  him- 
self as  Erma  had  seen  him  on  that  eventful 
day  when  they  first  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  there  to  read  the  unwritten  chapter 
of  a  pure  and  reciprocal  love. 

"It  is  the  shoot  from  the  root  of  the 
tree,"  he  mused.  He  was  talking  in  a  mon- 
otone to  himself,  oblivious  to  all  save  the 


280  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

sapling  counterpart  of  his  younger  self  be- 
fore him. 

Back  his  thoughts  went,  back  there  to 
the  old  Holiness  Town  House  where  he  was 
"Moderator,"  addressing  the  town  meet- 
ing !  His  gaze  was  riveted  on  the  stage,  but 
his  thoughts  were  far  away.  He  was 
aroused  from  the  dreams  of  his  childhood 
when  an  exquisitely  beautiful  young  girl 
in  robin 's-egg  blue  and  with  corn-silk 
blonde  hair,  advanced  and  pinned  a  luscious 
red  rose  on  the  lapel  of  his  son's  coat.  The 
cheering  burst  out  anew.  The  young  man 
drew  the  blushing  maiden  to  him  and  kissed 
her  in  her  shining  hair,  and  the  crowd  went 
wild!  His  father  looked  on  and  a  great 
longing  welled  up  in  him.  He  remembered 
how  that  Erma  had  done  this  same  thing 
to  him  at  the  church  festival,  and  how  he 
had  seized  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead 
to  the  delight  of  the  rustic  young  folk  of 
the  long  ago. 

"I  see  it  all,"  he  philosophized.  "It  is 
I,  the  stuff  of  me,  the  ego  of  me,  aye,  the 
very  soul  of  me,  coming  down  to  him — liv- 
ing in  him — just  as  I  am  the  living  proto- 
type of  my  father." 

But  the  skein  was  only  in  the  spinning. 
The  story  but  begun.  What  had  there  been 
two  instead  of  one?  Or  had  Erma  lived, 
what  then  ?  What  had  there  been  six,  eight, 
ten — a  dozen — boys  and  girls?  O,  it  were 
all  the  same,  plural  instead  of  singular, 


•An   exquisitely   beautiful  young  girl   in   robin's-egg  blue  and 

with  corn-silk  blond  hair,  advanced  and  pinned  a  luscious 

red  !•!>*<•  on  tlu>  lapel  of  his  son's  coat,  and  the  crowd 

went  wild!" 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  281 

souls,  not  soul,  there  was  no  limit,  only  in 
death. 

This,  then  was  the  Secret — age  old  and 
age  sought— the  offspring,  the  shoot,  the 
seed,  the  egg — the  soul!  Or  a  soul  for  every 
offspring,  shoot,  seed,  or  egg.  They  were 
numberless.  The  greater  the  multiplicity 
of  progeny,  the  more  prolific  the  tree  of 
procreation,  and  the  larger  the  number  of 
its  living  souls.  Each  a  soul  of  its  soul,  in 
turn  to  number  their  souls  according  to  the 
fruitfulness  of  the  tree.  It  was  an  endless 
chain — this  racial  soul-fabric — and  it  must 
go  on,  and  on,  and  up,  and  up,  to  the  very 
heights.  But  to  die  childless  were  to  die 
soulless !  He  had  not  lost  his  soul,  for  there 
before  him  it  stood,  his  son,  though  he  had 
but  the  one.  Here  was  the  answer  at  last: 
earth,  the  home  of  the  soul!  It  was  a  chal- 
lenge ! 

Jason  was  leaning  far  out  over  the  gold 
railing  of  the  box,  eager  to  catch  the  first 
words  that  should  fall  from  his  son's  lips. 
As  the  storm  of  greeting  subsided,  Quimby 
turned  and  caught  his  father's  eye.  There 
was  a  glitter  of  moisture  there,  like  the 
glitter  of  dew  on  the  frostflower  petals  in 
autumn  on  the  mountain.  It  was  the  glit- 
ter of  the  dew  of  joy. 

The  scientific  construction  of  the  build- 
ing was  such  that,  with  its  devices  of  bal- 
ance for  the  harmonizing  of  sound,  the 
faintest  vocal  articulation  was  clearly  audi- 


282  THE    TORCH    OF   REASON. 

ble  throughout  the  remotest  reaches  of  its 
vast  interior.  Like  all  the  intricate  ma- 
chinery he  had  invented,  which  worked 
smoothly  and  noiselessly,  the  theory  of 
Tune  was  his  hobby.  There  was  much  on 
the  printed  page  about  it,  but  young  Sands 
it  was  who  had  reduced  the  theory  to  a 
practical  science.  It  was  Temperature, 
Tune,  Chemical  Tune — Life.  Everything 
was  a  correlation.  There  were  no  separate 
substances  or  independent  particles  set 
apart  by  themselves;  all  were  but  frag- 
mentary members  of  the  one  great  organ- 
ism, and  with  disunited  action  or  obstructed 
scope,  only  confusion  and  discord  must 
result. 

All  the  homes  of  the  Industrial  Demo- 
crats were  built  with  this  idea  of  "tune" 
molded  into  the  very  cement  of  their  every 
wall.  Wood,  brick  and  stone  had  gone  with 
the  ox  cart  and  the  wooden  loom;  and  only 
glass  and  cement  and  metal  had  remained. 
These  could  not  burn  down,  but  would  last 
forever.  Wall  paper,  lace  curtains  and  car- 
pets also  had  been  relegated,  together  with 
all  the  rest  of  the  germ-laden  trash  and 
trumpery  of  an  out-lived  civilization,  the 
existence  of  which  had  depended  on  its 
ability  to  market  perishable  clutter  to  an 
impoverished  and  enslaved  people  for  the 
profit  the  traffic  yielded. 

But  what  was  the  speaker  saying? 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  283 

"You  call  me  'Professor,'  but  I  am  not  a 
professor.  Any  one  may  be  called  a  pro- 
fessor, for  to  be  a  professor  is  but  to  pro- 
fess something.  Some  profess  what  they 
are  not,  others  are  what  they  profess  not 
to  be.  I  am  not  a  professor,  but  a  doer. 
I  have  found  out  means  of  bringing  light 
out  of  darkness.  I  was  born  in  darkness 
and  ignorance,  like  the  rest  of  my  race ;  but 
I  smarted  under  the  lash  of  hunger,  and 
the  befuddling  word-wine  of  the  sooth- 
sayers was  abomination  to  me.  I  was  a 
seeker  after  knowledge. 

"In  the  workshop  of  Nature  I  served  an 
apprenticeship  to  the  Force  god.  There  I 
learned  that  all  not  of  force  was  decadent. " 

Then  he  went  through  the  whole  con- 
structive program  of  the  universe,  showing 
that  it  was  the  law  of  force — organic  force 
— that  shot  up  the  mighty  oak  from  the 
tiny  acorn,  dry  and  inanimate.  It  was 
force,  he  said,  organic  force,  the  activity  of 
chemical  good  health  through  contact  under 
temperature,  that  was  responsible  for  the 
rejuvenation,  revitalization  and  perpetua- 
tion of  all  life.  Even  the  planets  were  kept 
in  their  respective  places  in  the  great  cos- 
mos, like  gears  in  a  monster  machine, 
through  the  operation  of  this  same  law  and 
by  the  same  force  that  attracts  and  repels 
in  the  two  poles  of  the  magnet. 

Then  there  was  the  thing,  Love.  This 
also,  was  force,  the  greatest,  grandest,  but 


284  THE   TORCH   OP   REASON. 

withal  the  most  subtle  of  forces  amalga- 
mate. The  forces  of  shot  and  shell,  bayonet 
and  billy,  tyranny  and  superstition,  faded 
into  insignificance  in  the  brilliancy  and 
force  of  the  Love  electrodes. 

Love  had  ever  been  enslaved,  he  charged, 
with  the  enslaving  of  the  hands;  but  then, 
Love  was  -young.  Also  Love  was  ignorant. 
But  Love  was  the  ripening  virgin  of  human 
brotherhood,  and  was  at  that  very  moment 
tugging  at  the  thongs,  and  the  yoke  was 
even  now  falling  from  her  bruised,  white 
neck.  What  of  the  new  Industrial  Democ- 
racy ?  It  was  the  birth  of  the  Co-operative 
Commonwealth — a  brotherhood — a  love  civ- 
ilization. 

"Love  is  coming  of  age,"  he  announced, 
when  again  they  would  let  him  continue. 
When  the  maiden  attains  her  majority  she 
will  be  eligible  in  wedlock;  then  will  her 
champion  appear  to  claim  her  for  his  mate. 
This  will  be  Love  wedded  to  Humanity,  the 
long  betrothed  starvelings  between  which 
for  a  thousand  years  has  stood  the  bloody 
myrmidons  of  the  robber  king,  Merchand." 

Jason  was  all  attention.  Both  poet  and 
philosopher  himself,  the  words  of  his  son 
were  rarest  morsels  of  mental  nourishment 
to  his  hungry  ears.  This  is  what  he  would 
have  liked  to  say,  but  the  boy  had  said  it 
better.  He  was  cultured,  Jason  was  not. 
One  the  rough  diamond,  the  other  the  pol- 
ished gem.  He  could  strike  the  staggering 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  285 

blow,  but  the  other  could  speak  the  flaming 
word.  One  had  lived  the  life,  the  other 
was  the  life.  The  father  had  read  out  of 
the  books,  the  son  was  reading  into  them. 
One  was  the  past  and  the  present,  the  other 
the  present  and  the  future.  Jason  mar- 
veled at  the  smooth  delivery  of  each  clean- 
cut  word,  and  the  throng  swayed  under 
their  magnetic  voltage  like  willow  tendrils 
in  an  April  wind. 

Jason  looked  at  Jack  Philips.  That 
sunny  boy-man  was  showing  all  his  double 
row  of  white  teeth  in  a  pleased  and  satis- 
fied smile  which  was  the  very  essence  of 
undignified  delight.  He  knew  the  stuff  of 
Jack,  and  it  was  to  laugh  and  love  that 
Jack  lived.  But  there  was  the  Aztec,  Span- 
to,  burning  into  the  scene  with  his  big 
black  eyes  afire  with  passion.  On  his  arm 
clung  the  Indian  bride  of  his,  wide-eyed  but 
crying.  It  was  too  much  for  her.  The 
good  priest  had  pictured  Heaven  to  her,  but 
nothing  like  this  had  she  ever  dreamed  of 
earth.  These  strange  men — these  Social- 
ists— were  not  angels,  she  knew  that,  but 
somehow  they  did  not  belong  to  earth.  It 
was  all  too  good  to  be  true.  Besides,  some 
of  these  men  were  un-Christian — unbe- 
lievers— some  of  the  best  of  them.  Even 
there  were  avowed  Atheists  among  them; 
but  then,  all  this  was  true  of  the  multitudes 
of  men  she  had  known,  only  it  seemed  that 
always  these  ungodly  scientists  managed  to 


286  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

make  their  point,  right  or  wrong,  and  were 
genuinely  unafraid.  How  different  with 
the  hypocrites,  she  thought.  They  were 
always  quarreling  among  themselves,  and 
ever  ready  to  start  an  argument. 

But  the  crowd  was  cheering  again.  What 
was  it  Quimby  Sands  was  saying,  the  while 
he  pointed  to  his  father  in  the  box?  He 
had  been  telling  them  passionately  of  the 
years  of  double  search  of  father  and  son 
each  for  the  other,  of  the  struggles  and 
perils  of  his  father,  and  the  story  of  his 
dead  mother  whom  he  had  never  seen.  Si- 
lent and  motionless,  they  sat,  or  sympatheti- 
cally aroused  with  the  dynamic  passion  at 
his  righteous  rebellion.  He  told  them  the 
story  of  his  early  struggles,  and  the  press 
of  the  wrongs  seemed  to  weigh  them  down 
like  a  Jehovan  wrath. 

There  were  many  Amp.-rica.Tia  in  the  audi- 
ence, and  they  listened  to  the  story  of  the 
Red  Cadets,  and  how  they  came  to  be  born, 
with  keen  interest.  The  distribution  of 
classified  literature,  he  told  them,  was  the 
function  of  the  Red  Cadets.  This,  and 
health  culture,  along  with  the  study  of  self. 
It  was  not  in  the  books,  but  Quimby  Sands 
had  written  it  into  his  classified  literature. 
Classified  literature  meant  classified  litera- 
ture. It  didn't  mean  a  conglomeration  of 
bewildering  generalities,  extravagant  per- 
sonalities and  incomprehensible  statistics 
cheaply  printed  on  the  poorest  paper  and 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  287 

addressed  to  "You  workingmen ! "  It 
meant -what  it  said— for  instance:  "THE 
GOD  OF  THE  SOD."  This  was  a  100-page 
pamphlet  on  farming.  It  was  printed  on 
good,  strong  paper  calculated  to  stand  the 
shuffle,  and  it  told  all  about  farming,  from 
the  time  the  first  crooked  stick  was  made 
to  scratch  the  earth,  and  before,  all  the  way 
up  through  the  hand-hoe,  the  hand-sickle 
and  the  bucket  of  seeds,  to  the  mighty  auto- 
mobile gang-plow,  steam  seeder,  reaper  and 
thresher.  It  told  the  farmer  what  the 
farmer  wanted  to  know.  Yea,  it  told  him 
more  than  he  knew  he  wanted  to  know.  It 
told  him  that  he  was  the  creator,  sustainer 
and  the  unthroned  god  of  the  earth. 

This  book  sold  for  25  cents,  and  wher- 
ever it  was  sold  it  did  the  work — it  made 
SOCIALISTS.  Through  it  Socialism  was 
carried  to  the  tiller  of  the  soil  cooked  to  suit 
his  taste,  and  served  in  a  style  especially 
attractive  and  interesting  to  Mm.  It  was 
the  business  of  the  Red  Cadets  to  see  that 
every  farmer  bought  and  paid  for  a  copy 
of  this  book;  and  this  it  was,  more  than 
anything  else,  which  had  won  Canada  to 
Socialism. 

Then  there  was  "THE  CITIES  UNDER 
THE  SEA."  This  was  a  100-page  booklet 
for  carpenters.  It  began  back  of  man,  back 
and  beyond  and  beneath,  down  under  the 
sea,  and  told  first  of  the  coral  workers,  and 
how  that  they  were  united  and  always 


288  THE    TORCH    OF   REASON. 

worked  together.  From  these  it  told  of  the 
tree  people,  and  of  their  nests.  Next  it 
went  into  the  hills  among  the  cave  folk, 
then  out  on  the  plains  under  the  skin  tepee 
and  the  dugout.  Finally  it  took  the  reader 
into  the  modern  mansions  of  the  monied 
parasites  whose  fabulously  grand  abodes 
may  be  pointed  out  in  any  big  city,  on  the 
Hudson  River  above  the  Palisades,  at  Bar 
Harbor,  Newport,  or  on  the  sunny  shores 
of  the  Pacific.  This  book  was  for  the 
builder  and  his  art.  There  was  nothing  left 
out,  it  told  it  all.  Moreover,  it  told  it  in  a 
lanugage  spoken  by  the  modern  carpenter. 
In  fact  it  pled  his  cause  and  in  the  plead- 
ing it  laid  the  remedy  for  his  unrealized 
dreams  of  a  beautiful  home  for  himself  and 
his  loved  ones  in  his  lap. 

And  so  through  the  list:  The  barber,  the 
baker,  the  boilermaker  and  the  biscuit 
shooter.  None  were  forgotten,  and  it 
showed  what  was,  is,  and  will  be.  Not  be- 
cause some  men  wanted  it,  fought  for  it, 
and  that  it  was  a  good  thing;  but  because 
there  were  underlying  forces  in  the  very 
meat  and  marrow  of  man's  social  being 
that  had  been,  is  still,  and  will  continue  to 
be  compelling  it.  Each  special  classified 
propaganda  pamphlet  for  each  separate 
trade,  profession  or  calling,  treated  the  sub- 
ject to  the  same  end,  but  in  a  different  set 
of  words,  and  always  apropos  the  particu- 
lar job  at  which  one  worked.  It  showed 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  289 

that  the  population  of  the  earth  had  in- 
creased since  the  days  of  the  hand  tool,  and 
that  the  hand  tool  had  passed  with  the 
onward  march  of  the  race  up  and  into  the 
huge  factory.  With  the  coming  of  the  ma- 
chine had  come  the  increase  in  the  product 
of  each  pair  of  hands.  But  with  the  fac- 
tory owned  by  the  masters,  the  creators 
were  dispossessed.  In  other  words,  the  pri- 
vate ownership  of  the  public  means  of  life 
had  become  inadequate  to  the  public  needs, 
these  pampnlets  taught,  and  the  time  was 
come  when  the  workers  must  either  unite 
and  possess  the  earth  and  all  the  machinery 
of  social  needs  collectively,  or  else  the  race 
must  starve  to  death  for  the  pleasure  of  a 
few  plutocratic  masters. 

When  young  Sands  first  conceived  of 
classified  literature,  he  forthwith  proceeded 
to  tell  it  to  his  " friends,"  as,  before  he  got 
his  eye  teeth  cut,  he  had  always  ran  to 
them  to  tell  them  of  his  inventions.  It  was 
sympathy  and  encouragement  that  he 
wanted,  but,  as  in  the  case  of  his  inven- 
tions, he  had  gotten  neither.  Only  jealousy 
gave  they  him,  coupled  with  an  attempt  to 
pull  him  down  to  their  pigmy  level. 

But  the  Red  Cadets  were  more  than  prop- 
agandists. They  were  an  organization. 
In  every  town  and  city,  in  every  state  and 
nation  their  "garrisons,'  or  Capitol  houses, 
with  a  single  exception,  had  gone  up  to  float 
the  crimson  banner  of  universal  brother- 


290  THE   TORCH    OF   REASON. 

hood,  and  that  single  exception  was  the 
United  States.  Here,  their  birthplace,  they 
were  slandered,  ridiculed,  and  held  down  to 
the  level  of  the  low  order  of  capitalistic 
intelligence  prevalent  of  the  low  order  of 
governmental  administration.  Especially 
low  was  the  order  of  intelligence  in  St. 
Louis.  It  manifested  itself  everywhere. 
There  was  no  congenialty  or  sociability 
there.  Of  course,  ignorance  was  responsi- 
ble for  this.  It  is  always  ignorance  and 
the  consciousness  of  ignorance  that  seals 
the  lips  and  glints  the  eyes.  An  "  East- 
erner" was  spotted  on  the  instant  in  St. 
Louis.  He  always  held  his  head  erect  and 
wore  his  handkerchief  in  his  hip  pocket. 
Let  an  Easterner  reach  for  his  pocket  hand- 
kerchief in  public,  and  every  one  automat- 
ically reached  for  his  gun.  Street  car  con- 
ductors insulted  passengers  with  impunity, 
and  the  cats  and  dogs  killed  on  the  trolley 
lines  remained  to  be  trampled  into  the 
muddy  streets  until  carried  away  by  flies 
and  maggots.  But  out  on  the  corner  of 
Lindell  Boulevard  and  Newstead  avenue 
was  built  the  largest  and  most  magnificent 
Catholic  Cathedral  in  America.  It  cost 
three  million  five  hundred  thousand  dollars ; 
and  a  five  minutes'  ride  distant,  naked 
babes  were  subsisting  on  a  diet  of  swill. 

In  St.  Louis,  the  home  of  the  Red  Cadets, 
there  were  twenty  thousand  of  them;  but 
they  were  forbidden  to  erect  their  own  Cap- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  291 

itol  building.  That  they  were  a  "  conspir- 
acy," was  the  decision  of  a  corporation- 
owned  judge,  and  not  being  citizens  "of 
age,"  were  held  to  be  irresponsible!  But 
they  were  undeterred  by  such  rulings,  how- 
ever, and  the  good  work  went  on,  and  the 
Socialist  vote  continued  to  rise  with  the 
distribution  of  the  classified  literature  sold 
by  the  live  boys  and  girls  right  under 
the  very  noses  of  their  masters.  But  of  all 
the  classified  pamphlets  written  by  Jason 
Sands'  son,  probably  the  one  entitled, 
"THE  HOLLOW  ORIFICE"  was  the 
most  effective.  It  was  a  terrible  indict- 
ment against  war,  and  many  a  Boy  Scout 
had  been  seen  to  smash  his  gun  and  tram- 
ple his  cheap  cotton  uniform  as  a  result  of 
reading  this  frightful  tale  of  blood. 

And  so,  with  the  coming  of  classified  lit- 
erature and  the  Red  Cadets  had  come  the 
Canadian  victory,  he  told  them. 

"But  you  want  to  know  what  is  to  be 
done  in  the  case  of  the  United  States,"  he 
resumed.  "Well,  there  they  have  not  as 
yet  learned  the  simplest  rudiments  of  co- 
operation. They  are  great  on  division,  sub- 
traction, limit  and  boundary  lines,  but,  al- 
though having  themselves  taught  it  for  a 
hundred  years,  they  have  not  learned  the 
meaning  of  the  motto  of  every  lodge  and 
other  organization  on  earth:  'United  we 
stand,  divided  we  fall/  But  speaking  of 
boundaries,  let  me  tell  you  a  story. 


292  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

"The  imaginary  boundary  lines  that  the 
God-fearing  nations  have  conveniently 
drawn  around  themselves,"  he  said,  "are 
but  the  unnatural  barriers  erected  by  the 
robber  chiefs  and  maintained  but  for  the 
purpose  of  legalized  private  plunder.  They 
are  perpetually  operated  to  keep  the  work- 
ers divided  with  race  hatred,  that  they 
may  the  more  easily  sic  them  to  fighting 
whenever  a  war  may  be  profitably  pulled 
off  on  the  tame  public."  Then  he  referred 
to  the  boundary  between  Canada  and  the 
United  States  as  a  geographical  spite  fence. 
It  was  an  insult  to  their  pratings  of  "Love 
thy  neighbor  as  thyself." 

"Such  epithetical  derogations  as  'John 
Bull/  'Yank,'  'Canuck/  and  all  that  vin- 
dictive vernacular,  must  soon  drop  from  our 
vocabulary,"  he  prophesied.  "Socialism 
knows  no  boundaries,  but  wherever  they 
may  be,  Socialists  are  brothers — Com- 
rades." 

Recalling  a  very  interesting,  though  not 
generally  well-known  bit  of  American  his- 
tory, he  told  them  the  story  of  the  "Great 
British- American  hog  war ! "  It  most  prob- 
ably was  the  first  time  it  had  been  told  by 
a  Socialist  on  the  Canadian  side,  and  from 
the  levity  it  engendered  the  Socialist  posi- 
tion on  boundaries  seemed  sound. 

"Across  the  Strait,  there  in  the  Sound," 
he  went  on,  "lies  the  beautiful  little  island 
of  San  Juan.  On  that  speck  of  dirt — a  part 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  293 

of  the  earth  that  God  is  said  to  have  con- 
cocted from  less  material  and  then  given  to 
all  men — occurred  a  very  silly  fracas,  once 
upon  a  time,  which  came  near  plunging 
these  two  great  Christian  nations  into  a 
bloody  war.  A  hog  was  the  cause  of  it  all ! 
Imagine  two  mighty  nations  going  to  war 
over  a  hog !  The  hog  was  said  to  have  been 
a  'blooded'  hog.  Which,  I  presume,  is  to 
say,  that  he  was  an  importation  from  'The 
Other  Side.'  As  if  all  self-respecting  hogs 
weren't  blooded.  However,  I  guess  the 
'blooded'  point  was  well  taken,  for  I  am 
acquainted  with  both  blooded  and  blood- 
less, as  well  as  some  Woody  hogs  myself. 
Some  hog  all  the  money,  others  all  the  oil, 
and  still  others,  all  the  food  from  the 
mouths  of  innocent  children,  and  then  for 
good  measure  root  up  the  homes  of  work- 
ingmen  who  exhibit  enough  spine  to  dare  a 
healthy  protest. 

"Among  the  hogs  without  blood,  but 
through  whose  slimy  veins  sloughs  the  cold 
maggot- water  of  graveyard  affinity,  is  the 
hloody  old  Sus  scrofa,  Diaz,  who  for  thirty 
years  wallowed,  with  cloven  hoof  and  tushes 
red  and  dripping,  through  the  broken  heart 
of  poor,  groaning  Mexico — as  Bill  Reedy 
says:  'Our  sister  Republic,  God  save  the 
mark!'  This  grizzled  swine,  whose  every 
grunt  meant  the  death  of  a  patriot,  is  now 
well-nigh  blind  and  toothless,  and  his 
scrawny  bristles  once  black  as  the  pouch  of 


294  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

night-shade  that  serves  him  for  a  heart,  are 
now  a  yellow-grey,  like  the  grey  of  the 
dreaded  timber  angels  of  the  Arctic.  But 
he  still  grunts  and  wallows,  and  out  of  the 
skulls  of  babies  and  widowed  mothers  he 
drinks  the  sweat  and  blood  of  his  mur- 
dered slaves.  Once  upon  a  time — a  time 
that  went  down  in  history  on  a  page  draped 
in  mourning — a  'great'  President  of  the 
United  States  of  America  journeyed  thither 
to  that  land  of  weeping  stones  to  fondle 
and  caress,  and  press  the  foul-smelling  hoof 
of  that  bloody,  unblooded  monstrosity,  'in 
the  name  of  the  people  of  the  United 
States!' 

"But  I  am  straying  from  the  aforesaid 
history  apropos  the  great  British- American 
hog  war. 

"The  island  of  San  Juan  belongs  to  a 
well-known  group  which  had  always  been 
considered  a  part  of  the  territory  of  your 
Uncle  Sam;  but  the  Hudson  Bay  Co.,  the 
first  great  North  American  trust,  con- 
ceived a  sly  trick  by  means  of  which  the 
fertile  little  spot  might  be  successfully 
stolen,  and  so  arbitrarily  planted  over  it 
the  Union  Jack.  That  its  population  con- 
sisted chiefly  of  Americans  made  no  differ- 
ence to  the  rough  necks.  The  company's 
agent,  a  Cockney  Briton,  had  an  old  razor- 
back  and  that  John  Bull  hog  ate  the 
Yankee's  cabbage;  the  Yankee  shot  the 
blooming  porker  and  the  war  was  on.  Up 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  295 

drew  the  imposing  fleet  of  H.  R.  H.  Queen 
Victoria.  It  was  a  warlike  spectacle,  and 
it  demanded  restitution  from  the  man  who 
had  so  wantonly  slain  a  British  subject! 
But  I  guess  the,  Yankee  nomad  hadn't  the 
price,  or  else  he  wanted  some  fun;  any- 
way, he  loaded  his  old  musket  again  in- 
stead. That  ended  the  great  British-Amer- 
ican hog  war. 

"It  is  not  impossible  that  some  among 
you  have  forgotten  that,  on  the  island  of 
San  Juan,  over  there  in  Puget  Sound,  flew 
the  last  British  flag  above  United  States 
soil.  That  was  in  the  year  1859. " 

"Good  jawke,  awld  man,  and  bloody  wull 
tawld,"  laughed  a  lank  Englishman  with  a 
mop  of  yellow  hair  and  wearing  a  grin  that 
came  dangerously  near  severing  his  head 
at  the  ears.  This  story  put  the  house  in  a 
jocose  mood,  and  a  ripple  of  levity  flowed 
over  it,  during  which  the  lank  individual 
sprang  up  in  his  seat,  and  waving  his  arms 
wildly  for  recognition,  shouted:  "You  Saw- 
shalists  as  wull  as  anarchists  all  fly  the 
sime  flag,  naow  yer  naow,  dawntcher  naow. 
Would  yer  mind  tulling  us  abaowt  th'  Red 
Flag,  plyse  ?  Of  course,  I  naow,  yer  naow. 
But  there  may  be  some  Hermericans  'ere  oo 
dawnt  naow,  dawnt  yer  naow." 

"It  is  said  that  wolves,  prey-birds,  bulls 
and  other  forms  of  gore-spilling  beasts  hate 
and  fear  red,"  the  speaker  replied.  "When 
any  of  these  see  red  it  acts  on  their  nerves 


296  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

like  fire  on  powder.  They  explode.  Fear 
is  generally  associated  with  guilt,  and  cun- 
ning is  the  pander  of  cowardice  and  crime. 

"The  Red  Flag  is  not  embellished  with 
the  skull  and  crossbones,  nor  mottled, 
striped  or  crossed  with  many  hues.  There- 
fore, it  is  not  a  fit  emblem  of  'patriotism' 
in  a  society  where  the  street  pavements 
reek  with  the  brain-spatterings  of  police 
club  brutality,  and  where  the  young  sons 
of  the  nation  are  drilled  by  the  church, 
armed  by  the  government,  uniformed  at  the 
expense  of  their  impoverished  parents  and 
incited  to  pose  as  living  targets  for  the 
machine-gun,  the  cannon  and  the  torpedo. 
Honest  work  folk  are  not  afflicted  with 
terror  at  the  sight  of  red  flags — or  any 
other  flags.  Like  pure  women  and  inno- 
cent children  they  are  without  fear,  and  the 
fluttering  hues  of  banners  give  them  no 
cause  for  alarm. 

"It  is  written  that  'a  troublesome  fellow' 
was  once  spiked  to  a  cross  of  wood  because 
he  taught  the  'rabble'  that  all  men  were 
brothers.  He  said  that  because  the  blood 
of  all  was  red,  it  bespoke  a  common  parent- 
age. The  same  story  teaches  that  'his  rai- 
ment was  spotless  and  his  banner  was  the 
color  of  blood.'  No  wonder  the  myrmidons 
of  the  owning  class  followed  him  about  to 
catch  words  out  of  his  mouth  with  which 
to  crucify  him!'  It's  a  wonder  that  the 
present  generation  of  'vipers  and  hypo- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  297 

crites'  don't  try  to  twist  the  Christian 
religion  into  a  '  seditious  doctrine  of 
anarchy ! ' 

"Every  Capitalist  government  under  the 
sun  has  a  different  flag.  This  is  as  it 
should  be;  for  how  otherwise  could  their 
uniformed  dupes  be  befuddled  into  killing 
each  other  in  battle?  This  Heaven-hal- 
lowed pastime  of  pumping  lead  into  one 
another  is  never  indulged  in  by  the  money- 
mongers  who  rule  the  nation.  Their  func- 
tion is  to  give  orders.  There  would  be  no 
profit  in  it  for  them  to  lay  out  on  the  wet 
ground  o'  nights  hunting  each  other  with 
guns.  This  exhilarating  exercise  is  bene- 
ficial only  to  working  men!  That's  what 
'patriotism'  is  for.  This  is  one  of  the  *  in- 
centives' that  Socialism  cannot  stimulate. 

"To.  the  grafting  ghoul  who  fattens  on 
the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  children,  the 
Red  Flag  is  a  signal  of  gravest  danger ;  but 
to  the  toiler  it  is  a  sheen  of  hope  and  love 
and  blessed  peace.  To  the  one  it  bodes 
death,  to  the  other  it  symbolizes  joy,  and 
life,  and  home.  To  the  tyrant  it  reflects 
the  Eaw  Head  and  Bloody  Bones  of  a  mil- 
lion battlefields,  filling  his  golden  dreams 
with  terror,  as  in  his  subconscious  fantasy 
he  beholds  his  rusting  riches  stained  red 
with  the  life  fluid  of  the  many  victims  of 
his  cruel  greed.  To  the  builders  of  the 
world  it  radiates  the  cheery  smiles  of  happy 
children  in  homes  where  armless  sleeves 


298  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

and  tales  of  carnage  never  more  shall  cast 
a  gloom. 

"The  Bed  Flag  was  once  a  thing  of 
snowy  whiteness;  but  their  rule  of  ruin 
splashed  upon  it  the  innocent  blood  of  mar- 
tyrs, dyeing  it  a  crimson  hue.  What  of  the 
Inquisition?  What  of  .the  Commune? 
What  of  John  Brown?  What  of  Love  joy? 
Their  blood  is  there — look  at  your  hands! 
—you  workingmen  who  once  voted  for  Cap- 
italism. What  of  Russia?  What  of  Fer- 
rer? What  of  Mexico?  What  of  the  mil- 
lions of  poor,  misguided  mothers'  sons  who 
'have  been  blown  to  twitching  fragments  of 
slippery  pulp  with  shot  and  shell,  while  the 
money  Shylocks  who  coin  their  quivering 
flesh  into  clinking  gold  were  feasting  in 
mansions  across  the  seas,  far  beyond  the 
roar  of  war's  red  hell  and  away  from  the 
smell  of  blood? 

"The  Red  Flag  is  the  badge  of  my 
father's  manhood— 

"Three  cheers  for  Jason  Sands,"  went 
up  the  yell! 

Like  a  marine  volcano  the  chorus  burst 
into  thunderous  applause,  followed  by  the 
three  rousing  cheers:  "Hurrah!  Hurrah! 
Hurrah!  for  Jason  Sands — Jason  Sands! 
Jason  Sands!  Speech,  speech ." 

But  the  speaker  raised  his  hand  for  si- 
lence, then  continued:  "It  is  the  deed  of 
my  heritage,  it  is  the  coat  of  arms  of  the 
class  that  toils.  I  see  in  its  folds  the 


THE   TORCH   OP  REASON.  299 

promise  of  love  to  a  weeping  world.  I 
know  that  I  am  represented  there.  It  is 
the  symbol  of  freedom.  Its  very  fabric  is 
damp  with  the  sweat  of  your  faces.  My 
mother's  tears  are  there.  The  virginity  of 
your  sweet  sisters  is  protested  there,  and 
the  stifled  moan  of  the  unborn  babe,  throt- 
tled by  the  bony  hand  of  poverty  in  its 
mother's  womb,  is  trembling  there. 

"What  of  the  victims  of  the  late  human 
carrion  who  sent  troops  to  Pullman?  If 
he  had  had  his  way  the  blood  of  honest 
Debs  would  now  be  there;  and  that  the 
heroic  blood  of  Haywood  did  not  saturate 
its  sacred  weft  is  not  the  fault  of  the  bar- 
barian of  "big  stick"  infamy,  who,  for 
seven  years  so  foully  disgraced  the  public 
trust.  What  lisping  babe  can  be  found  who 
does  not  know  that  the  Eed  Flag  of  human 
brotherhood  is  the  International  emblem  of 
peace,  love,  and  liberty,  that  will  soon  float 
over  an  awakened  world  at  the  birth  of  the 
Co-operative  Commonwealth1? 

"If  the  anarchists  wish  to  adopt  the  Red 
Flag,  it  is  well.  It  is  better  to  be  an  anar- 
chist under  a  Socialist  flag  than  a  wage- 
slave  under  a  Capitalist  rag.  When  all  the 
anarchists  become  Socialists  there  will  no 
longer  be  any  Republican  or  Democratic 
parties. 

Before  I  had  read  the  history  of  Chris- 
tian civilization,  trailing  it  back  down  the 
back  track  of  its  butchers  who  were  called 


300  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

'heroes,'  I  was  a  Republican.  After  I  had 
read  that  I  was  an  anarchist.  Then  some- 
one lied  and  told  me  Socialism  and  anarchy 
were  the  same,  so  I  studied  Socialism  and 
became  a  Socialist. 

"This  beautiful  amusement  house  is  one 
of  the  cornerstones  of  the  Industrial  De- 
mocracy. I  am  glad  to  participate  in  its 
dedication.  It  is  a  thing  of  social  wealth. 
It  proves  to  me  that  at  last  the  selfishness 
of  human  nature  is  being  understood  and 
applied  intelligently.  While  it  is  true  that 
selfishness  is  the  motive  force  behind  every 
action  of  every  form  of  life,  selfishness 
until  now  was  always  individual,  and  there- 
fore destructive,  mean  and  inhuman.  With 
the  Co-operative  Democracy  has  come  the 
collective  selfishness.  Collective  well-being 
means  collective  happiness;  and  out  of  the 
pool  of  this  social  abundance  is  absorbed 
the  individual  self  desires,  and  the  self 
defense  of  individual  competition  falls 
from  the  individual  like  husks  from  the 
ripened  corn. 

We  are  met  here  to-night  to  learn  from 
one  another.  This  is  another  demonstra- 
tion of  intellectual  selfishness.  It  is  grand ! 
It  is  beautiful!  It  is  glorious!  In  the 
selfishness  of  the  brute  as  exemplified 
through  the  Capitalist  system,  men  meet 
that  they  may  become  wise  in  ways  where- 
by they  can  legally  destroy  each  other. 
This  is  what  they  call  'individuality.'  It 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  301 

is  not  rightly  named.  Its  real  name  is 
individual  'barbarity. 

"We  Socialists  were  long  called  dream- 
ers, by  our  friends — the  enemy.  But  I  say 
to  you  that  this  is  the  age  of  the  dreamer. 
They  soon  shall  know  that  it  is  the  dreamer 
who  is  the  true  progress-god  of  the  dawn- 
ing civilization.  They  shall  know  that  the 
dreamer  is  the  toiler,  and  that  the  toiler 
shall  be  the  dreamer,  and  that  both  toiler 
and  dreamer  shall  be  one.  The  dreams  of 
the  future  shall  be  day-dreams.  They  shall 
be  dreamed  with  eyes  open  and  out  loud  in 
the  broad  open  light  of  a  world  without 
fear ;  a  world  without  superstition,  without 
ignorance  and  without  chains." 

"Man,  like  the  love-eyed  animals,  is 
essentially  a  social  species.  But  his  so- 
called  social  systems  are  not  systems  of 
social  peace.  Instead  of  social  organiza- 
tions, he  constructs  competitive  congestions. 
In  direct  opposition  to  the  constructive 
harmony  of  his  inherent  nature,  he  has  per- 
mitted the  few  degenerate  prey-beasts 
among  his  family  to  fasten  him  down  to  a 
divided  confusion  of  ideas,  to  which  he 
foolishly  bows  like  the  idol  worshiper  and 
the  savage. 

"This  obeisant  prostitution  of  intellect 
and  ideals,  is  called  patriotism!  And  the 
savagery  of  old  which  yoked  the  race  in 
chattel  slavery,  was  nothing  in  comparison 
with  the  mental  servility  of  the  pawns  of 


302  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

this  our  'representative'  form  of  govern- 
ment. 

" Imagine  a  wolf  representing  a  hare! 
Can  you  conceive  of  the  fish-hawk  repre- 
senting the  interests  of  the  fish  upon  whom 
he  feeds?  Thinks  of  a  workingman  voting 
for  a  representative  in  political  office,  who 
possesses  millions  of  dollars — the  accrued 
profits  from  the  traffic  in  uneaten  bread- 
bread  snatched  from  the  hungry  mouths  of 
his  own  "patient  wife  and  innocent  children. 
Such  indeed  were  a  pitiful  sight ! 

"I  recognize  the  fact  that  my  body  is  a 
great  living  organism  of  wonderfully 
wrought  and  ever  active  machinery.  I  ar- 
rived at  such  a  knowledge  of  this  human 
institution  through  the  studv  of  Science. 
I  found  that  the  great  organism  called  the 
human  body  is  but  the  social  structure  com- 
posed of  uncountable  billions  of  minute  cell 
life,  all  joined  together  to  make  up  the 
whole  r>erfect  working,  breathing,  happy 
man.  Tf  one  single  cell  among  these  num- 
berless billions  becomes  injured,  every 
other  cell  in  this  body  will  rush  to  the 
rescue  and  repair  the  injury,  or  the  whole 
organism  is  likely  to  become  diseased  and 
to  disintegrate,  and  finallv  to  perish.  I 
would  have  the  whole  organism  live  a  splen- 
did, full,  hap-ov  life,  by  making  it  possible 
for  every  cell  making  up  the  aggregate  of 
this  bodv  to  be  well  fed,  well  exercised  and 
well  rested. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  303 

"I  love  life.  This  is  some  more  of  the 
great  selfishness  of  Socialism.  How  may 
I  obtain  that  life?  That  has  ever  been  the 
race  question  through  all  the  ages.  My 
answer  is,  let  man  organize  socially  for  the 
perfection  of  economic  conditions  which 
will  make  for  life.  What  are  conditions'? 
Social  contact  among  men — a  Society  com- 
posed of  the  creators  of  wealth — a  Society 
of  one  class — a  Society  in  which  the  inter- 
ests of  one  will  be  the  interests  of  all — a 
Social  Society. 

"The  science  of  Socialism  is  the  science 
of  Self — of  Life.  If  you  want  a  more  tech- 
nical definition  go  to  the  Latin.  There  you 
will  find  what  'social'  means  (companion). 
The  'ism'  suffix  being  simply  a  term — con- 
struction, the  value  of  which  is  to  signify 
that  state  of  companionship  which  recog- 
nizes more  than  one  companion — a  collec- 
tion of  companions — a  society  of  compan- 
ions— Socialism. 

"  'Brotherly  love'  is  not  Socialism.  So- 
cialism will  not  be  achieved  because  of  such 
fine  sentimental  phraseology.  Socialism 
will  be  first,  and  will  pave  the  way  to  broth- 
erly love.  Socialism  will  obtain  in  the 
affairs  of  men  because  of  selfishness,  and 
because  of  selfishness  only — the  selfishness 
that  is  as  broad  as  space  and  as  generous 
as  sunshine.  Selfishness  is  the  vital  essence 
of  all  force,  and  Force  is  the  very  ego  of 
all  things  not  dead. 


304  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

"There  used  to  be  a  peculiar  reasoning 
among  working  people  to  the  effect  that, 
'should  the  worker  get  the  full  product  of 
his  toil  as  Socialism  proposes,  he  would 
suddenly  lose  all  desire  to  live,  become  lazy 
and  dissipated,  and  finally  lay  down  and 
die  from  starvation!'  Every  Socialist  has 
been  importuned  a  thousand  times  to  de- 
sist from  his  disasterous  course,  because,  it 
was  urged,  unless  those  who  do  all  the  work 
of  the  world  are  perpetually  robbed  of 
eight-tenths  of  what  their  hands  create, 
there  would  be  no  ' incentive '  and  all  hands 
would  become  discouraged  and  go  on  a  pro- 
tracted drunk! 

"This  same  intellectual  mastodon  used  to 
assure  us  that,  to  work  for  another  for 
seventeen  per  cent,  of  one's  labor  product 
were  quite  the  proper  thing  because  it  gave 
one  work!  But  to  have  an  industrial  plan 
whereby  the  worker  worked  for  himself 
collectively,  retaining  all  of  the  one  hun- 
dred per  cent,  of  his  created  wealth,  would 
be  to  ' divide  up!' 

"I  have  lain  awake  of  nights  trying  to 
analyze  and  classify  this  marvelous  men- 
tality, but  in  vain.  In  all  science  there  is 
no  chemistry  to  analyze  such  a  brain,  and  I 
very  much  doubt  if  posterity  will  be  able 
to  solve  the  dark  mystery  during  the  active 
cycles  of  earth's  futurity. 
.  "Come  on  board  the  Agitator  and  I  will 
show  you  what  Life  means.  I  will  show 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  305 

you  Tune.  I  will  show  you  Individuality. 
I  will  show  you  Peace,  Harmony,  Selfish- 
ness and  Love.  There  is  where  we  work 
at  all  of  these.  We  are  all  trained  indi- 
viduals. There  we  make  no  'mistakes.' 
No  punishments  are  inflicted  there.  We 
are  guilty  of  no  'sins'  or  'crimes.'  There 
you  will  find  Knowledge.  There  you  will 
become  acquainted  with  Science.  There 
you  will  observe  Balance.  On  board  that 
ship  the  obstructions  are  all  removed. 
'Self -denial'  is  not  written  in  our  code. 
We  know  no  styles  or  fashions.  'Morals' 
and  'immorals'  are  not  down  in  our  vo- 
cabulary. There  are  no  different  qualities 
with  us,  everything  is  of  the  best  quality — 
everything  is  good. 

"We  are  out  for  life.  With  us  it  is  'good 
Lord'  and  'good  Devil,'  just  so  neither 
comes  between  us  and  life.  Self-culture 
and  organization  keep  us  in  perfect  tune 
with  our  economic  interests,  and  everybody 
smiles. 

"There  are  no  long  faces  in  our  com- 
pany. Neither  have  we  any  special  hours 
for  devil  charming.  When  the  devil  sees 
us  coming  he  hunts  a  new  latitude  and 
boxes  his  compass  for  a  stern  view.  Or- 
ders, as  such,  are  unknown  under  the  dis- 
cipline we  maintain;  but  signals  there  be 
which  are  understood  and  heeded,  it  means 
safety.  Safety  means  greater  life — selfish- 
ness. 


306  THE    TORCH    OF   REASON. 

"We  are  all  workers  aboard  the  Agita- 
tor. But  we  are  all  agreed  upon  some- 
thing. Every  man  is  self -trained  and  self- 
disciplined,  we  have  an  objective  point — a 
goal  in  view.  When  we  start  that  ship  we 
first  have  decided  that  we  want  to  go  some- 
where. Then  we  all  go  that  particular 
way.  One-half  of  us  do  not  try  to  run  the 
ship  northward  while  the  other  half  battle 
with  the  first  in  the  effort  to  drive  her  in  a 
southerly  direction.  In  our  feeble-minded 
imagination,  we  fancy  that  every  man  Jack 
of  us  is  equally  necessary  in  accomplishing 
any  desired  result  with  every  other  man 
Jack  of  us.  Thus  we  are  not  brought  to  a 
'dead  level,'  but  to  a  live  level. 

"  There  is  no  graded  parading  of  aris- 
tocratic dignity  in  our  world.  We  are  men. 

"I  invented  the  Agitator  and  the  Comet 
because  I  could  not  help  inventing  them. 
Creation  is  purely  a  selfish  motive  with 
me.  Constructive  work  makes  me  happy, 
and  I  want  to  be  happy.  I  resolved  to  give 
my  inventions  to  mankind,  so  that,  by  mak- 
ing the  happiness  general  I  would  have 
some  chance  of  getting  mine.  Anything 
short  of  such  a  plan  is  short  of  life,  is 
short  of  liberty,  is  short  of  individuality. 
And  anything  short  of  individual  happi- 
ness, in  any  degree,  is  slavery,  and  slavery 
in  all  its  forms  must  go." 

In  the  very  front  row  and  in  the  end  seat 
on  the  left  of  the  center  aisle,  was  seated  a 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  307 

little  scrub  of  a  man,  who  fidgeted  con- 
stantly, never  for  an  instant  taking  his  eyes 
off  the  speaker,  except  occasionally  to  flash 
an  evil  glance  at  Jason  Sands.  Immediately 
back  of  him  sat  two  gentlemen  in  black 
broadcloth.  The  youthful  orator  had  not 
noticed  them,  probably  because  of  his  ultra- 
enthusiasm;  but  they  had  not  escaped  his 
father.  From  his  bitter  experiences  with 
this  sleek  species,  coupled  with  the  thou- 
sand other  dangers  which  for  forty  years 
had  kept  him  primed  and  cocked  for  trouble, 
the  alert  Jason  knew  he  could  classify  them 
the  moment  he  laid  eyes  on  the  cut-throat 
trio.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  size 
them  up;  and  he  whispered  his  suspicions 
to  the  Aztec  doctor,  only  to  be  rebuked  by 
Jack  Philips  with  a  mild  fling  at  his  "over- 
sensitiveness. "  But  Joe  Hautier  pricked 
up  his  ears,  and,  though  no  one  saw  him  do 
it,  slipped  a  hand  inside  his  spotless  linen 
coat.  Symbols  sat  up  from  dozing  on 
Toy's  lap  and  ventured  that  there  was 
"sumpling  doing."  He  had  detected  the 
faint  clicking  sounds  and  recognized  them 
as  the  same  clicking  sounds  he  had  heard 
the  night  before,  when  the  captain  gave  the 
secret  signal  that  "boiled"  old  Mullock 
and  his  revenue  tub  Terror  in  Norton 
Sound.  Instantly  with  the  clicking  sounds 
flew  open  a  small  shutter  in  the  lighthouse, 
and  the  white  illumination  changed  to  the 
soft  garnet-emerald,  then  back  again  to  the 


308  THE    TORCH   OF    REASON. 

white.  The  changes  were  so  rapid  and  so 
soon  over  that  none  save  the  captain  of  the 
Agitator,  the  inventor  and  the  operator  in 
the  lighthouse  noticed  the  thin,  needle-like 
point  of  white  that  shot  for  a  fraction  of 
a  second  through  the  garnet-emerald  glow 
and  touched  the  crown  of  the  fidgety  man 
in  the  front  row.  Moreover,  Captain  Joe, 
the  inventor  and  the  lighthouse  operator 
alone  knew  that  the  needle-like  ray  was  a 
"rangefinder." 

The  meeting  was  warming  to  its  close. 
The  inspired  speaker  had  poured  forth  his 
best  effort,  dropping  periods  rapidly  and 
pungently.  The  one-hundred  piece  orches- 
tra was  essaying  its  instruments,  and  the 
thousand  male  and  female  singers  were 
shuffling  their  music  for  the  Marseillaise 
in  the  grand  finale.  That  human  sea  of 
twenty  thousand  heads  was  billowing  and 
rolling  to  the  classical  eloquence  of  the 
scholarly  discourse.  They  had  followed 
him  back  through  all  the  sad  plethora  of 
a  thousand  years  of  grinding  toil  and  sor- 
row. Warming  with  the  warmth  of  his 
child  love,  and  burning  with  him  in  the 
wild  fire  of  his  dynamic  portrayal  of  the 
myriad  wrongs  of  each  robber  regime.  The 
climax  came  when,  rising  to  hitherto  unsur- 
mounted  heights  he  eulogized  his  father's 
name  in  a  recapitulation  of  the  perilous 
and  discouraging  events  culminating  in 
their  recent  reunion.  And  referring  to 


TIIK    TORCH    OF   REASON.  309 

his  giant  white-haired  sire  as  the  Spartacus 
of  the  Social  Revolution  he  concluded,  with 
sweetest  sarcasm:  "There  is  a  much  par- 
roted mouthing  more  or  less  popular, 
characterized  as  'hero-worship.'  It  is  a 
baneful  and  contagious  disease!  I  do  not 
know  its  originator,  but  I  think  I  have 
located  its  cause.  It  appears  to  be  a  germ 
malady  whose  bacteria  belong  to  the  papo- 
tenacio  family,  which  are  always  largest 
at  the  feed  end.  Strangely  enough,  the 
germ  is  giffonic,  existing  only  in  the  woof 
of  fright-wigs  worn  by  those  who  parrot 
it.  If  appearances  are  a  criterion,  none  of 
these  fearsome,  stentorian-tongued  guar- 
dians of  approbate  piety  appear  in  any 
immediate  danger  of  becoming  objects  of 
attack  by  this  particular  imaginary  pesti- 
lence. For  sake  of  argument,  it  were  gener- 
ous to  agree  with  the  hero-worship 
Nemesis,  that  heroes  never  existed,  and 
that  bravery  never  existed;  but  there  were 
charity  in  such  acquiescence!  Some  day 
I  am  going  to  write  a  short  treatise  on 
Jealousy.  Then  you  will  see  the  un- 
lime-lighted  'parrots'  hunting  a  new  classi- 
fication ! 

"You  will  never  find  a  hero  among 
mockers." 

With  this  last  cool  challenge  to  the  fault- 
finding destructionists,  and  with  the  right- 
eous pride,  generation-proof  and  genera- 
tion-inherited, flushing  cheek  and  flashing 


310  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

from  eye,  he  pointed  to  where  his  father— 
the  victor  of  a  thousand  unsought  battles 
was  seated,  and  with  clarion  resonance, 
cried:  "Behold  a  hero!" 

They  were  magic  words.  They  brought 
the  crowd  to  its  feet  as  if  impelled  by  steel 
springs.  Up  went  the  yell:  "Speech!" 
"  Speech!"  "  Jason  Sands!"  "  Jason 
Sands!" 

Jason  heard  the  clamor,  and  with  swift 
retrospection  he  swept  back  over  the  years 
to  the  street  corner  and  the  soap  box.  Hur- 
riedly he  compared  his  early  digressions  in 
the  midst  of  many  a  motley  crowd  to  the 
conversational  excellence  of  his  son's  poig- 
nant rhetoric,  and  wondered  if  he  could 
really  make  a  speech.  But  there  was  no 
denying  them.  "I'm  in  for  it,"  he  ac- 
quiesced, and  with  the  throng  madly  hur- 
rahing he  made  his  way  to  his  son's  side, 
and  with  both  crutches  under  his  left  arm, 
he  raised  his  great  right  hand  for  silence. 
It  could  be  seen  that  his  huge  bulk  shook 
with  great  emotion.  The  crowd  still  yelled, 
and  he  leaned  and  rested  half  his  weight 
on  his x son's  shoulder. 

The  old  Spartan  was  fighting  another 
battle.  Was  it  to  be  his  last!  Like  a 
storm-struck  ship  on  a  hidden  reef  for  a 
moment  he  floundered,  then  righted  on  the 
crest  of  a  mighty  wave  of  fresh  enthusiasm, 
and  stood  motionless  before  them  like  an 
adamantine  sentinel  on  a  storm-swept  shore. 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  311 

For  fully  ten  minutes  pandemonium 
reigned.  As  one  surge  of  applause  upon 
another  rose  and  fell,  an  old  glad  twinkle 
got  in  his  eye,  but  he  did  not  smile.  All 
the  smile  had  gone  out  of  him  and  was 
buried  and  frozen  in  the  north  snows  along 
with  his  amputated  foot.  For  twenty 
years  the  only  smile  he  had  known  was  the 
brute  smile  of  battle;  and  with  his  last 
great  fight  with  the  wolves  had  gone  that 
smile  forever. 

But  who  was  hissing!  Quimby  knew, 
for  he  had  seen  them  at  last— the  two 
well-nourished  gentlemen  in  black  broad- 
cloth, and  he  remembered  the  threat  of 
Father  Munne.  With  lips  parted  in  a 
hideous  snarl,  their  fat  faces  blue  with 
hate,  they  hissed  both  son  and  father  while 
twenty  thousand  others  cheered.  The  little 
fidgety  man  in  front  exhibited  unmistakable 
signs  of  fear;  but  as  no  attention  was  paid 
to  the  hissing,  he  sank  a  little  lower  in  his 
seat  and  the  two  men  on  the  stage  stood 
motionless. 

There  was  a  lull,  followed  by  the  in- 
troduction. Came  another  stunning  out- 
burst, then  silence.  In  a  deep  bass  voice, 
clear  as  a  glass  bell,  but  with  just  the 
slightest  tremolo  in  it,  the  old  rebel  gladia- 
tor began. 

"Why  would  you  hear  me?"  he  protested. 
"Look  at  me!  I  am  an  old  tree!  I  grew 
high  up  on  the  mountain.  I  have  faced  the 
blast  of  torrent  and  tempest;  and  I  have 


312  THE    TORCH    OF   REASON. 

stood  firmly  against  both  quake  and  deluge. 
But  it  is  autumn.  My  limbs  are  shat- 
tered and  my  trunk  rift  with  the  stroke 
of  strife.  Over  the  hill  the  sun— for  me— 
is  going  down.  It  will  rise  on  the  morrow, 
but  only  for  him  (laying  his  gnarled  right 
hand  on  his  son's  auburn  head).  Winter 
is  at  hand;  and  when  it  comes,  like  an 
old  tree  I  shall  fall  in  the  snow. 

"It  is  good  to  be  here,  and  it. is  good  to 
be  loved.  I  have  found  my  son,  or  rather 
he  has  found  me,  'and  I  shall  live  with  him 
on  his  strange  ship;  but  when  the  hour 
strikes,  he  will  take  me  back  to  Her.  I 
have  tried  to  live  to  see  Socialism,  and  now 
my  dream  is  coming  true. 

"You  are  all  so  happy!  That  is  as  it 
should  be.  I  am  happy  too— what  is  left 
of  me — for  these  boys  have  fulfilled  the 
promise,  and  surely  'ye  shall  inherit  the 
earth'— have  inherited  the  earth.  This 
grand  demonstration  proves  to  me  that 
those  who  cried  out  in  the  wilderness  cried 
not  in  vain. 

«T _» 

"Blasphemy- 

" Devil,"  interrupted  first  one  and  then 
the  other  of  the  two  groomed  gentlemen 
in  the  black  broadcloth,  leaping  to  their 
feet  with  clenched  fists  and  bloodshot  eyes. 
"  'Ere!  'ere!"  remonstrated  the  yellow- 
haired  Englishman,  and  a  dead  silence  like 
the  premonition  of  doom  fell  upon  the 
house.  Jason  and  his  son  stood  like  petri- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  313 

fied  trees,  and  Captain  Hautier,  followed 
by  Spanto  and  Philips  jumped  into  the 
audience  from  their  box,  just  as  the  little 
fidgety  man  jerked  a  huge  black  revolver 
from  somewhere  about  his  person  in  the 
act  of  dropping  a  shot  into  the  duo  on  the 
stage,  when  the  blackness  of  an  ocean  cave 
displaced  the  colored  lights,  and  a  thin, 
needle-like  shaft  of  lightning-blue  white, 
flashed,  meteor-like  from  the  lighthouse 
straight,  with  unerring  accuracy,  and  struck 
the  loaded  gun  in  mid-air.  There  was  a 
puff  of  white  smoke  and  a  faint  sound 
like  flushed  powder;  a  splash  of  molten 
steel  and  lead  on  the  aluminum  floor, 
together  with  the  charred  remains  of  the 
right  hand  of  the  little  fidgety  man  burned 
off  at  the  wrist! 

Amid  the  hysterical  screams  of  fainting 
women  and  cries  of  "fire"  and  "murder" 
from  excited  men,  the  operator  in  the  light- 
house touched  two  keys,  one  labeled 
"LIGHT,"  the  other  "PANIC."  Captain 
Joe  and  the  doctor  made  a  spring  for  the 
stage,  just  as  the  lights  came  on;  but 
Philips  did  not  understand,  and  was  so 
caught  with  the  crowd  in  the  amphitheater. 
With  the  return  of  the  lights,  out  dropped 
the  whole  bottom  of  the  coliseum,  taking 
the  entire  audience  with  it.  Down,  down, 
down  into  darkness  it  fell,  so  rapidly  that 
every  tongue  was  stilled  and  every  breath 
stayed  with  the  indescribable  sensation  of 
dropping  feet  first  into  a  bottomless  pit! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

FOUR  YEARS  AROUND  THE  WORLD. 

I  stood,  at  twilight,  while  the  pall 

Of  battlements  their  shadows  flung 
Athwart  the  bullet-eaten  wall, 

Where  dying  Communards  had  sung; 
And  there  in  fantasy,  like  ghosts, 

The  murdered  myriads  arose, 
And  marshalling  their  battered  hosts, 

Forever  tyrants  to  depose, 
Unfurled  the  Banner  of  the  Free — 
The  blood-red  Flag  of  Liberty ! 

Ten  seconds  after  the  bottom  fell  out  of 
the  coliseum,  Jack  Philips  found  himself 
afloat  in  a  huge  barge  along  with  twenty 
thousand  others  on  a  subterranean  lake. 
And  in  ten  minutes  more  the  barge  had 
become  the  bottom  of  the  coliseum  again, 
and  he  and  the  rest  were  seated  as  before, 
while  the  music  and  singers  rendered  the 
grand  old  Marseillaise.  But  neither  the 
little  fidgety  man  nor  the  two  groomed 
gentlemen  in  black  broadcloth  were  present ! 

It  was  just  one  more  of  the  life-saving 
inventions  of  the  New  Time.  It  operated 
to  prevent  disaster  in  case  of  accident  of 
whatever  name  or  nature.  Everything 
was  invention  under  the  new  order,  and 
it  was  surprising  how  many  geniuses  were 
bobbing  up,  now  that  profit  in  human  labor 
was— in  Canada— a  thing  of  brutal  history. 

(314) 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  315 

To  appreciate  this  new  device,  one  had 
but  to  recall  the  many  holocausts  under 
Capitalism,  including  the  Pemberton  mill, 
the  Columbus  school,  the  Bellville  convent, 
the  Iroquois  theatre,  and  the  Triangle 
shirtwaist  factory.  In  all  of  these,  as  in 
thousands  of  others  now  forgotten,  hun- 
dreds had  been  burned  and  crushed  to 
death  for  no  other  reason  than  that  safety 
devices  cost  a  little  money. 

None  of  the  buildings  of  the  Co-opera- 
tors were  inflammable,  but  the  heads  of 
men  were  still  inflammable,  and  there  was 
no  precaution  too  great  to  be  undertaken 
by  the  Socialists. 

It  was  no  trouble  to  have  these  subter- 
ranean lakes  and  gardens,  driveways  or 
tunnels.  With  the  electro-radium  ray,  a 
mountain  could  be  fused  into  gas  and  made 
to  disappear  in  a  few  minutes ;  and  to  burn 
tunnels  and  cavities  in  the  earth  for  any 
purpose  was  but  to  play  the  ray  on  the 
desired  point.  All  matter  being  simply 
congealed  gas,  and  gas  being  lighter  than 
air,  all  one  had  to  do  to  get  rid  of  matter 
was  to  know  the  process  by  which  it  became 
reduced  to  its  original  state.  It  was  simply 
a  question  of  getting  the  fire  hot  enough. 
When  the  ray  was  turned  on  a  granite 
wall  or  a  clay  bank,  the  stone  or  clay 
glowed,  turned  white,  then  with  a  sputter- 
ing hiss  retreated  and  vanished  before  the 
terrific  heat  like  snow  struck  with  a  stream 


316  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

of  hot  water.  Thus  ditches  were  dug, 
mines  sunk,  and  surface  lands  leveled. 
Also  all  the  foul  fever  swamps  and  stagnant 
pools  were  in  this  way  eliminated  and  des- 
troyed. 

It  was  this  same  fire-force  that  propelled 
the  Agitator  and  the  Comet.  Back  of  the 
thin,  semi-circular  slits  in  their  hulls,  which 
slits  looked  like  thumb-nail  marks  on  a  wa- 
termelon, or  spoon  bowl  thrusts  in  the  but- 
ter, were  aluminum-steel  compartments  into 
which  was  forced  a  highly  combustible 
gas  made  from  earth  and  sea  water,  and 
stored  in  hydraulic  tanks  abroad.  Each 
semi-circular  slit  slanted  astern,  and  had 
the  invention  consisted  of  this  alone,  with 
the  compartments  filled  with  air  instead 
of  the  highly  combustible  gas,  a  maximum 
speed  of  a  hundred  miles  an  hour  would 
have  been  as  easy  as  running  at  a  ten-knot 
clip  under  steam  or  gasoline  with  any  of 
the  old-fashioned  tubs  of  commerce.  Think, 
then,  of  the  awful  resistance  of  this  ex- 
plosive gas  coming  in  contact  with  the  water 
and  being  ignited  by  the  electro-radium 
ray  as  it  escaped! 

Quimby  had  seen  rockets  cleave  the  sky, 
and  with  a  little  study  he  came  to  know 
the  force  of  a  burning  stream  of  gas.  All 
the  aerial  crafts  he  built  were  submarines 
as  well,  and  when  running  at  full  speed 
the  exploding  gas  operated  so  rapidly  and 
fiercely  that  the  ships  themselves  never 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  317 

got  time  to  touch  the  water  at  all.  It 
was  blown  back  faster  than  its  own  pres- 
sure could  act  against  the  displacement  of 
the  craft.  They  burned  vacuums  in  either 
water  or  air,  and  through  vacuums  of  their 
own  burning  they  traveled;  thus  eliminat- 
ing friction,  their  speed  was  regulated  only 
according  to  desire.  Its  limits  had  never 
been  tested,  as  no  one  could  be  found  rash 
enough  to  undertake  the  possibility  of 
stopping  after  such  a  test.  This  was  the 
way  of  lightning.  It  was,  indeed,  a  system 
of  rapid  transit. 

The  untutored  never  would  have  sus- 
pected that  the  entire  seating  capacity  of  the 
I.  I.  Ds'  theatres  were  built  upon  boats, 
and  that  these  boats  in  turn  were  resting 
on  ball-bearing  toboggan  slides,  fifty  per 
cent,  out  of  perpendicular,  and  a  hundred 
feet  above  underground  lakes,  seas  or 
rivers.  When  the  keyboard  operator  in 
the  lighthouse  touched  the  ivory  disk  la- 
beled " PANIC,"  he  released  an  electric 
clutch  that  held  suspended  the  coliseum's 
auditorium  as  the  human  hand  may  seize 
and  hold  on  to  an  iron  ring.  To  over- 
power and  manacle  the  godly  trio  that 
had  caused  the  trouble,  clutch  and  draw 
up  the  audience  to  its  original  place,  was 
the  work  of  but  moments.  Compressed  air 
did  the  trick,  and  compressed  air  never 
failed. 

It  seemed  there  was  no  escape  for  these 


318  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

scientists,  these  ungodly  heretics,  these 
inventors  who  were  continually  upsetting 
the  accepted  order  of  things  with  their  un- 
understandable  mechanical  devices  and 
their  "devilish"  theories  concerning  or- 
ganic life.  Wherever  they  went  it  was 
the  same.  Trouble  was  ever  there  to  greet 
them.  They  tried  to  avoid  it  by  every 
conceivable  precaution  and  kindness,  but 
the  disturbers  tracked  them  like  hungry 
wolves.  It  were  ever  so.  Past  history 
was  full  of  it.  Men,  like  animals,  had  al- 
ways shied  at  things  they  were  too  ignorant 
to  comprehend,  and  these  the  cunning 
preyed  upon  by  perpetuating  their  foolish 
fears. 

Four  years,  it  was,  since  that  little 
episode  in  Victoria,  and  the  Agitator, 
stowed  with  motion  picture  films,  curios, 
historic  data  and  wood  and  stone  specimens 
from  the  far  and  hidden  archives  of  earth, 
was  lying  heavily  from  her  over-weight 
in  the  landlocked  harbor  of  St.  Johns, 
Newfoundland. 

It  was  September.  They  had  spoken 
the  "White  Squadron"  of  the  Gloucester 
fishermen,  home-bound,  off  the  Banks  the 
day  before,  for  the  weather  is  not  fine  for 
cod  fishing  on  the  Grand  Banks  of  New- 
foundland after  September.  Gloucester 
still  lived  by  fishing,  and  still  ate  meat; 
for  was  it  not  a  part  of  the  great  United 
States? 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  319 

But  Newfoundland,  once  but  an  unde- 
veloped island,  inhabited  ever  so  sparsely 
by  rough  fisher  folk,  uncultured  and  poor 
with  the  poverty  of  dirt,  was  now  a  ve- 
ritable tropical  paradise,  and  one  of  the 
most  popular  summer  resorts  on  the  North 
Atlantic  Coast.  Egg-shaped  lay  St.  Johns 
just  behind  a  winrow-like  range  of  fossil- 
sandstone  mountains  that  overhung  the 
South  coast,  reached  through  a  narrow 
cut  in  Signal  Mountain,  which  cut  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  sawed  out  with  a  cross- 
cut saw. 

Seal  and  cod  fisheries  had  been  the 
island's  chief  industries  back  in  the  days 
of  civilized  barbarism;  but  now  the  seal 
oil  tanks  were  gone,  and  Water  street,  with 
its  ramshackle  canneries  and  stinking  fish 
offal,  was  a  transformation  to  beautiful 
palm  gardens,  with  sparkling  fountains 
and  automobile  boulevards. 

Up  the  hill,  north  of  the  harbor,  where 
the  quaint  old  city  used  to  lean  toward 
the  sea,  terraces  of  magnificent  cement 
and  colored  glass  mansions  dotted  the  slope, 
surrounded  by  shade  trees  and  flower 
gardens,  and  all  kept  green  and  growing 
both  summer  and  winter  by  means  of  the 
electro-radium  ray.  Cold,  wintry  winds 
screeched  and  howled  down  the  bleak  coast 
in  winter,  with  all  their  customary  fury; 
but  when  they  struck  the  screen  of  "live 
light"  that  ran  around  the  cit}^  like  a 


320  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Chinese  wall,  the  coldest  blizzards  became 
summer  zephyrs,  and  snow  storms  turned 
to  warm  showers  in  the  heart  of  zero 
weather. 

This  was  modern  Newfoundland.  It 
was  some  of  the  " modernism"  feared  and 
fought  by  the  regalian  candle-gloomers 
with  their  incense  nonsense  and  their  tom- 
tom, torn-foolery  of  the  worm-eaten  yester- 
day. But  there  was  one  primal  relic  of 
the  weak-kneed  past  that  Newfoundland 
still  clung  to  and  cherished.  How  hardly 
may  we  censure  her,  when  we  recall  that 
the  aforesaid  relic  came  to  her  honestly 
down  the  back  stairs  of  a  long  line  of 
ancestral  back-moss  and  obsolete  monkey- 
shines?  The  relic  was  the  town  crier! 
The  office  had  been  a  lineal  perpetuation 
for  three  hundred  years.  Ever  since  the 
first  hobgoblin  yarns  of  witchcraft  lore 
sent  their  meandering  ghosts  excursioning 
through  the  superstituous  brains  of  their 
long  since  moldy  forebears,  the  town  crier 
of  St.  Johns  had  been  the  annually  re- 
appointed  joke.  Regularly  each  hour 
through  the  sleeping  streets  tottered  his 
shriveled  form,  lantern  in  hand,  his  long 
white  whiskers  gyrating,  like  hoar-moss 
in  the  wind  from  his  palsied  jaw.  He 
was  always  a  good  old  man— too  old  to  be 
anything  but  good— and  his  voice  always 
trembled  like  the  gurgle  of  death. 

It  was  more   than   twenty  years   since 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  321 

Jason  and  old  "Thimble-rig"  Harrington 
had  played  in  the  STAR  OF  THE  SEA 
HALL,  but  the  crier  was  the  same  old 
crier,  and  he  looked  just  the  same.  Time 
apparently  had  wrought  no  change  in  him. 
All  changes  in  him  had  been  made  and  he 
was  beyond  change. 

They  had  put  up  at  THE  KNIGHTS' 
HOME,  a  Water  street  hostelry  of  Dicken- 
sonian  antiquity,  where  the  servant  girls 
were  required  to  carry  the  guests'  trunks 
upstairs  to  their  rooms,  and  servant  girls 
at  that  time  got  "two-and-six"  a  month! 

Every  nightly  hour,  in  a  wheezy  mono- 
tone, the  whole  town  was  awakened  by  the 
crier  on  his  lonely  rounds,  with  the  follow- 
ing or  similar  assinine  intelligence  droned 
out  in  a  protracted  drawl  that  sounded 
for  all  the  world  like  a  squeeky  gate  hinge 
in  an  east  wind:  " E-e-e-e-eleven  o'clock, 
and  a-a-a-a-11  is  well,  and  all  is  well,  and 
all  is  well  except  a  drowned  goat  in  the 
harbor.  H-e-e-e's  dead." 

They  had  been  around  the  world— the 
Agitator  and  her  party— and  in  three 
months  they  would  be  tied  up  at  St. 
Louis,  on  the  Mississippi  River. 

From  Victoria,  just  four  years  ago,  they 
had  cruised  down  the  Pacific  Coast  to  San 
Francisco,  thence  to  Honolulu  the  Philip- 
pines, Australia,  New  Zealand  and  around 
the  Horn.  Cutting  in  and  out  among  the  ten 
thousand  islands  of  the  tropic  and  semi- 


322  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

tropic  Pacific,  had  eaten  up  the  first  year. 
But  the  motion  pictures  secured  were  the 
rarest  and  most  valuable  ever  collected. 
Added  to  these  were  the  wonderful  deep 
sea  shells  and  other  marine  curiosities  of 
the  South  Seas.  The  Agitator  could  dive 
to  any  depth,  and  with  her  powerful  lights 
turning  Neptune's  treasure  chambers  into 
noon-day,  they  robbed  the  jewel  caskets 
of  Amphitrite  of  their  choicest  pearls  and 
photographed  the  strange  marine  life  for 
the  motion  picture  schools  of  the  new 
Democracy. 

From  Tierra  Del  Fuego  they  slipped 
up  the  east  coast  of  South  America  to 
Buenos  Aires,  Rio  De  Janeiro  and  into 
the  South  Atlantic  ocean  to  the  island  of 
St.  Helena,  the  speck  of  rock  in  the  vast 
expanse  of  blue  ocean  made  famous  by  the 
exile  and  disgrace  to  its  lonely  shores  of 
the  murderer  Napoleon  in  1815.  Here  a 
blear-eyed,  tip-seeking  old  fraud  conducted 
the  visitors  to  the  "very  spot"  where  the 
Corsican  beast  was  wont  to  sit  dreaming 
France-ward,  pointing  out,  with  officious 
dignity,  the  "very  rock"  upon  which  the 
conquered  conqueror  loved  to  sit,  daddling 
his  royal  toes  in  the  ticklesome  sudsy  surf. 

Up  the  Congo  next  they  sailed.  Then 
back  around  Cape  Town  to  Madagascar, 
Zanzibar,  Ceylon  and  Bombay. 

Here  they  were  in  India,  the  land  where 
religion  had  become  mayhem,  and  where 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  323 

social  cast  ranged  from  the  strata  of  straw 
with  its  insigna  of  cow  dung,  to  bejewlled 
Gaekwar  in  his  robe  of  gold,  his  harem 
and  slaves,  sipping  the  wine  of  pearls  and 
sitting  above  the  law.  Here  it  was  at 
Delhi,  back  in  1911,  that  200,000,000  sub- 
jugated starvelings  laid  belly  down  with 
faces  in  the  dust,  and  spent  $100,000,000,  to 
rehearse  the  coronation  farce  of  England's 
bigamist  king— the  last  parasitic  monarch 
ever  crowned— and  while  that  barbaric 
fantasma  was  being  staged,  6,000  of  India's 
poor  surrendered  their  lives  to  the  Pale 
Lady  of  Starvation.  Westward  and  north- 
ward the  course  now  lay,  through  the  gulf 
of  Aden  and  into  the  Red  Sea. 

In  the  Congo  they  did  not  tarry.  One 
month  was  long  enough  for  them.  Quimby 
Sands  wanted  to  go  there  to  confirm  the 
tales  of  cruelty  told  of  old  King  Leopold 
to  the  natives.  Here  he  found  a  million 
square  miles  of  tropical  paradise  being 
ravished  of  its  natural  beauties  and  re- 
sources as  with  a  pestilence.  Whole  na- 
tions of  blacks  were  still  groaning  under 
the  yoke  of  chattel  slavery,  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  whom  had  been  maimed  for  life 
by  the  uniformed  Myrmidons  of  this  old 
bloody  beast— King  Leopold  of  Belgium. 

"Go  up  the  Congo,"  Jason  had  advised 
his  son,  "and  you  will  see  sights  that  will 
make  your  blood  run  cold."  Jason  knew, 
for  he  had  been  shanghaied  aboard  a 


324  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

French  blackbirder  on  the  Gold  Coast  back 
in  the  '90s,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  "nig- 
ger" blood  he  had  seen  wantonly  spilled 
nauseated  and  unnerved  him. 

For  the  slightest  disobedience  or  irregu- 
larity, a  hand  or  foot  was  chopped  oft'; 
and  for  any  diminution  in  the  quantity 
or  quality  of  service  rendered  subsequently, 
oif  came  the  head  of  the  poor  unfortunate 
to  satisfy  the  cruel  lust  of  one  of  Capital- 
ism's most  successful  Christian  gentlemen. 
All  this  was  being  done  in  the  civilized 
process  of  "developing"  the  country.  Of 
course,  it  was  because  Leopold  was  a  great 
and  good  king  that  he  so  loved  these  help- 
less colored  slaves!  He  loved  them  in  the 
same  sense  and  degree  that  the  American 
wage-slave  is  loved  by  his  Wall  Street 
masters:  It  is  because  they  love  him  so 
that  they  "give"  him  work!  And  it  is 
because  they  love  him  so  that  they  give 
him  a  "lockout"  and  the  police  club  when- 
ever the  market  is  supplied  and  there  is 
no  longer  a  profit  in  loving  him. 

The  Congo  country  was  an  open  store- 
house of  good  things  free-lying  on  the 
bosom  of  earth,  to  be  had  for  the  taking. 
So  old  King  Leopold  furnished  the  finan- 
cial backing  of  the  Henry  M.  Stanley  ex- 
pedition of  robbery  and  blood,  which,  in 
1877,  did  spotter  service  for  him,  and  paved 
the  way  for  the  international  wolf-pack 
known  as  the  African  International  As- 


THE    TORCH   OP   REASON.  325 

sociation.  With  this  Capitalistic  machine 
greased  with  the  gore  and  sweat  of  both 
black  and  white  slaves,  at  a  conference  in 
Berlin  in  1885,  fourteen  great  Powers  were 
agreed  upon  the  methods  and  tactics  by 
which  they  were  to  pour  their  mercenaries 
and  hirelings  into  the  Congo  to  exploit 
it  of  its  riches.  This  pact,  or  greater 
wolf -pack,  was  called  the  "Great  Charter 
of  the  Congo  Free  State."  Which,  trans- 
lated into  understandable  diction,  meant,  the 
free  license  of  fourteen  nations  to  legally 
devastate  and  murder,  enslave,  rob  and  lay 
waste  to  one  of  the  richest  lands  under  the 
shining  sun. 

But  the  Congo  was  not  alone.  What 
of  the  Boer  war?  England— " Merry  Eng- 
land" -it  was  which  slaughtered  and  well- 
nigh  exterminated  a  whole  nation  of  peace- 
ful happy  farmers  in  that  awful  war  of 
commercial  piracy.  Jason  was  in  New 
Orleans  at  the  time,  and  was  commissioned 
by  the  government  to  go  up  the  Mississippi 
River  for  mules,  which  mules  were  to  be 
sold  to  the  British  government  and  shipped 
to  South  Africa.  All  capitalist  govern- 
ments were  the  same,  and  all  were  engaged 
in  the  same  business  of  enslaving  the  work- 
ing class  and  in  keeping  the  people  divided 
that  they  might  the  more  easily  control 
and  legally  rob  them. 

But  it  was  different  now.  All  the  great 
nations  were  Co-operative  Industrial 


326  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Democracies.  Socialism  had  come  every- 
where at  about  the  same  time.  One  ex- 
ception there  was,  however:  the  great 
United  States!  The  most  enslaved  and 
capital-ridden  Autocracy  on  earth,  the 
people  were  sound  asleep,  dreaming  the 
sweet  but  archaic  dreams  that  their  grand- 
fathers had  dreamed  of  liberty  from  the 
tyrant  rule  of  a  foreign  king. 

It  was  their  very  dreams  of  liberty  that 
kept  them  enslaved  and  asleep.  Their 
liberty  was  liberty  in  their  dreams  only. 
How  could  they  know  that  they  were  asleep 
when  they  trusted  all  their  thinking  to 
their  rich  masters?  Their  masters  told 
them  they  were  wide  awake,  and  that  they 
were  "free-born  voting  sovereigns."  How, 
then,  could  they  know  that  they  were 
slaves?  Didn't  their  masters  know  best? 
Look  at  them!  They  wore  sleek  black 
clothes  and  plug  hats  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Of  course,  they  were  the  smartest, 
elsewise  how  could  they  wear  diamonds 
and  stop  at  the  best  hotels  ?  But  they  were 
waking  up— that  is,  the  children  were. 
The  Red  Cadets  was  proof  of  this. 

Through  the  Suez  Canal,  past  Cairo  and 
into  the  Mediterranean,  then  up  the  Nile 
they  explored,  and  with  the  aid  of  the 
Comet  and  her  powerful  ray,  they  were 
able  to  give  to  the  world  the  secret  of  the 
Pyramids  and  the  Sphinx.  The  tombs  of 
Cheops  and  his  successors  they  were,  and 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  327 

were  made  of  cement,  instead  of  blocks 
of  stone,  as  was  commonly  but  erroneously 
supposed. 

In  those  days,  when  these  kings'  tombs 
were  built,  the  soul  was  said  to  be  simply 
the  breath— the  only  thing  given  up  at 
death— and  it  was  supposed  to  be  breathed 
up,  or  to  go  into  some  beast,  bird,  reptile 
or  vermin— anything  that  happened  to  be 
nearest  at  the  moment  of  its  flight.  This 
creeping,  crawling  or  fluttering  thing  then, 
according  to  theory,  hustled  away  with  its 
precious  charge  to  somewhere  or  other, 
anywhere  wherever  Heaven  happened  to  be 
located— temporarily,  for  the  convenience 
of  the  sorceresses  who  lived  by  teaching  it. 
After  5,000  years  of  meandering  about  the 
country  in  the  aforesaid  fashion,  it  was 
supposed  to  be  brought  back  to  its  original 
owner  and  breathed  again  into  the  nostrils, 
when,  straightway  he  would  become  himself 
or  herself  again,  as  the  case  might  be. 

In  order  to  have  all  of  this  fine  melo- 
dramatic phantasm  staged  and  opened  on 
schedule  time,  of  course,  the  carcasses 
of  these  cruel  old  tyrants  had  to  be  mum- 
mified and  entombed. 

But  that  was  the  'belief  of  the  tune,  and 
it  answered  as  well  as  anything  to  keep 
the  ignorant  submissive  and  satisfied  with 
their  misery.  Besides,  it  gave  the  slaves 
work!  Pyramids  and  sphinxs  had  to  be 
built,  otherwise  how  could  they  preserve 


328  THE   TOECH    OF   REASON. 

and  have  to  worship  the  carion  of  their 
beloved  rulers'?  All  of  this  about  the  sor- 
ceresses and  their  accepted  fetish  was  in 
the  books,  and  the  books  were  on  the  shelves 
of  the  Public  Libraries  of  every  nation  on 
earth;  but  there  they  stayed,  dust-laden, 
and  were  never  read. 

For  a  thousand  miles  through  the  sleepy 
Land  of  Egypt  up  the  sluggish  Nile  with 
first  Agitator,  then  Comet,  they  explored, 
and  the  sights  of  ancient  wreck  and  ruin, 
when  the  shaved  pates  with  their  temporal 
power  had  taxed  the  people  either  to  death 
or  out  of  the  country,  filled  them  with 
shame  and  sadness.  There  were  the  stately 
halls  and  temples,  upon  whose  vast  walls 
still  clung  the  priceless  paintings  and 
wonderful  engravures  of  two  thousand 
years  ago;  and  upon  whose  crumbling 
floors  wild  beasts  munched  the  red  bones 
of  their  fresh-killed  prey.  On  the  broad 
cement  steps,  still  intact,  sprawled  slimy 
crocodiles,  basking  in  the  silent  desert  sun, 
and  from  behind  fallen  columns  in  the 
swale  the  brooding  mud  hen  left  her  nest 
to  squawk  frightfully  away  among  the 
water  reeds. 

Next  it  was  through  the  historic  old 
Dardanelles  and  the  Turkish  Bosphorus 
at  Constantinople,  and  into  the  Black  Sea. 
To  Naples  and  Rome  they  cruised  in  a 
day.  It  was  from  this  latter  ancient  city 
that  the  Pope  had  been  driven  out  to  take 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  329 

refuge  from  the  wrath  of  his  long-suffering 
people  in  the  United  States.  Thither  he 
had  hied  himself  at  the  behest  of  his 
American  allies,  the  Wall  Street  Adminis- 
tration. Taking  up  his  new  berth  in  the 
great  $3,500,000  cathedral  at  St.  Louis, 
his  business  was  to  unionize  all  remaining 
religious  creeds  under  Roman  Catholic  dic- 
tatorship. This  accomplished,  Church  and 
State  formed  a  clandestine  collusion  for 
the  purpose  of  combating  Socialism.  All 
this  were  inevitable.  The  dynasties  and 
systems  of  earth  had  ever  germinated  with- 
in themselves  the  fires  of  their  own  dissolu- 
tion. It  was  history.  This,  then,  was  the 
last  stand  of  the  Beast.  It  marked  the 
beginning  of  the  end.  This,  the  fall  of  the 
Papacy,  happened  in  the  year  of  1914. 

They  visited  Marseilles  and  historic  old 
Toulon  in  South  France,  then  whirled 
around  through  the  Gibraltar  Strait.  Here, 
in  response  to  a  request  from  the  Comrades 
of  the  surrounding  country,  the  Agitator 
gave  them  a  hand  in  the  demolishing  of 
that  famous,  or  infamous  rock,  which  Great 
Britain  for  a  century  had  boasted  could 
not  be  taken. 

Modern  civilization  had  decreed  that  it 
must  be  done  away  with  to  aid  posterity 
in  forgetting  the  crimes  of  war's  brutal 
history.  Wars  were  no  more  and  the  causes 
of  war  lingered  only  as  a  shuddery  memory 
of  the  nightmare  past. 


330  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Running  a  half-mile  out  to  sea,  the  Agita- 
tor focused  first  her  range  finder,  then 
turned  on  the  mighty  electro-radium  pillar 
in  its  most  violent  form.  The  night  was 
dark  and  the  " fireworks"  splendid.  The 
performance  lasted  fully  a  minute.  The 
noise  was  beyond  description— it  was  awful ! 
All  the  thunderbolts  of  time  loaded  into 
one  huge  bomb  and  exploded  without  warn- 
ing could  not  have  matched  it.  Imagine 
it  if  you  can;  but  then,  there  are  some 
things  beyond  imagination.  Gibraltar,  a 
solid  mountain  of  rock,  fused  into  gas 
in  a  minute!  It  must  have  been  beyond 
belief  back  a  half-century.  This  brought 
down  a  torrent  of  rain;  and  when  morning 
came  the  great  Eock  of  Gibraltar  was  no 
more. 

France,  in  1910,  polled*  1,106,047  So- 
cialists votes  and  seated  76  members  in 
her  Parliament.  This  was  the  shot  that 
toppled  the  throne  of  greed.  But  greed 
was  heavily  entrenched,  and  only  for  the 
fact  that  the  workers  were  united  did 
they  win  the  third  Commune.  This  time 
it  was  not  a  "Paris"  Commune,  but  a 
French  Commune.  They  had  learned 
their  lesson  well— these  French  hewers  of 
wood  and  drawers  of  water.  No  more 
reaction  for  them.  The  Paris  shambles  of 
'71  was  remembered. 

(*  Official  figures  presented  to  the  author  by  Morris 
Hillquit  International  Secretary  of  the  Socialist  party  in 
1011.) 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  331 

When  the  Sands  party  arrived,  all  Paris, 
yea,  all  France,  was  in  celebration  of  the 
new  victory,  and  the  coming  of  the  Ameri- 
cans was  welcomed  with  the  best  that 
human  labor  afforded.  What  impressed 
Jason  Sands  most  was  the  sacred  devotion 
with  which  these  Frenchmen  consecrated 
their  lives  to  principle  and  cause.  The 
spirit  of  it  fired  him.  It  was  in  the  air. 
The  sun  reflected  it.  The  birds  sang  of 
it.  The  warm  showers  bathed  the  earth 
with  it.  It  was  the  soul  of  the  French 
Revolution.  He  had  heard  his  father 
speak  of  it,  for  his  people,  on  his  father's 
side,  were  French,  and  had  been  driven 
out  of  France  for  having  taken  part  in 
the  slaughter  of  the  aristocrats  in  that 
same  revolution.  He  had  always  felt  it 
in  the  inner  man  of  him,  but  he  had  never 
lived  it  before.  Here  one  could  sense  it 
with  every  breath.  Men  trod  lightly  the 
pavements — pavements  that  had  run  red 
because  labor  had  had  to  learn  its  lessons 
in  red.  Women  still  shuddered  at  the  cry 
of  children,  and  mothers  paled  wide-eyed 
to  see  a  petal  fall  from  a  red  French  rose. 

Standing  in  the  Square  Du  Pere-La- 
choise,  his  attention  was  riveted  on  what 
at  first  looked  like  an  incomplete  bit  of 
masonry — an  unfinished  wall.  Upon  closer 
approach  it  proved  to  be  a  monument 
erected  sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  mar- 
tyred Communards,  40,000  of  whom  the 


332  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

masters  had  lined  up  against  a  deadwall 
and  shot  to  death.  This  monument  was 
calculated  to  immortalize  a  section  of  the 
very  deadwall  against  which  the  brains  and 
hearts  of  those  40,000  Socialists  and  their 
wives  and  babies  had  been  shot  out.  There 
were  the  bullet  holes  which  had  eaten  deep 
into  the  very  stone  of  that  deadwall. 
Wonderfully  wrought  in  bas-relief  upon 
that  wall-monument,  and  reflecting  the 
silent  horror  and  hopeless,  expectant 
doom  of  those  victims  of  a  tyrant's  wrath, 
the  modern  sculptor  had  portrayed  all  but 
the  crackle  of  musketry  and  moan  of  death. 

Here  was  a  mother  sinking  to  her  knees, 
a  sucking  babe  clasped  to  her  nude  breast, 
both  shot  through  with  a  dozen  holes.  On 
this  square  of  cold  stone,  a  young  herculene 
son  of  France,  his  head  defiantly  thrown 
back  with  honest  pride  in  that  he  had 
been  chosen  to  die  for  the  Commune,  stands 
holding  apart  his  shirt  front  to  receive 
the  volley  of  lead— lead  that  had  been 
mined  and  molded  by  workingmen!  Here 
was  a  severed  hand;  there  a  mutilated 
face;  on  the  next  cube  a  dying  patriarch, 
his  bald  skull  riven  and  torn  where  the 
leaden  missiles  had  ploughed  it  through. 

But  all  this  was  only  so  much  stone. 
Like  what  must  the  real  thing  have  been! 
History  says  they  uttered  no  cowardly 
alarm.  But  these  cold  stones  did  cry  out, 
more  eloquent  cried  they  in  their  silence 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  333 

than   rang  the   death   sentence   that   sent 
their  righteous  souls  into  eternity. 

Jason  felt  a  hand  laid  gently  on  his 
right  arm,  and  looking  down  he  recog- 
nized the  form,  but  not  the  features  of 
Captain  Hautier.  Joe  was  at  home  in 
Paris,  but  the  Commune  had  turned  him 
adrift.  "Come,"  he  said,  "I  will  show 
you  where  my  father  stood  and  faced  them, 
cursing  their  craven  souls  to  Hell,  after 
the  cowards  in  uniform,  who  obey  orders, 
had  pumped  into  him  a  pound  of  lead. 
He  was  ironed  to  my  mother  and  my  sister, 
and  when  their  brains  splashed  upon  his 
broad  breast,  he  held  them  in  his  mighty 
arms  until  they  shot  him  down.  But  I 
was  too  young;  they  overlooked  me  in  the 
cradle  where  her  tender  care  had  laid  me." 

They  were  now  at  the  very  deadwall 
which  the  sculptor  of  the  memorial  monu- 
ment had  tried  to  imitate.  Here  came 
the  working  class  of  Paris  once  a  year  to 
decorate  the  wall  in  memory  of  their 
martyred  comrades.  Some  of  the  faded 
decorations  still  clung  to  pegs  driven  into 
the  bullet  holes.  Withered  garlands  of 
flowers,  crosses  and  wreaths  there  were, 
whose  crumpled  petals  littered  the  ground 
at  its  base.  Jason  looked  at  Joe  and  beheld 
the  face,  not  of  the  blvthe  navigator  of  the 
Acfitator,  but  of  a  lion  at  bay.  It  was 
but  a  flash  across  that  intervening  vista 
to  those  days  of  slaughter.  As  he  stood 


334  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

before  that  mural  sentinel,  which  loomed, 
a  silent  witness  to  a  nation's  crime,  he 
saw  not  sculptured  faces  and  breasts  of 
stone,  but  the  living  and  livid  mutilated 
flesh  and  bone  of  those  murdered  Com- 
munards. Every  floral  cross  and  wreath 
became  a  rigid  form;  and  into  the  dark 
orifices  where  leaden  missiles  had  gouged 
out  the  solid  stone,  came  the  horror  stare 
of  virgin 's  eyes,  alternating  with  the  stead- 
fast gaze  of  the  militant  heroes  who  had 
scorned  the  blindfold  rag. 

He  saw  his  father  as  his  mother  and 
sister  must  have  seen  him,  a  battered  god, 
glowing  with  triumph  in  the  hour  of  defeat ; 
crushed  but  never  conquered;  killed,  per- 
chance, but  living  still,  while  the  corpses 
fell  beside  him  with  everv  volley  from  the 
firing  squad,  in  the  mad  dream  that  ran 
riot  through  his  imaginative  brain.  Fan- 
tasy possessed  him;  and  mingled  with  the 
hoarse  curses  of  the  veterans  grown  old  in 
toil,  he  could  hear  the  death-gasp  of  the 
women  and  children  shot  down  like  herded 
beasts  in  the  dust. 

Born  with  the  blood-infusion  of  the 
Commune  in  his  veins — a  heritage  nurtured 
with  his  mother's  milk— he  was  a  Com- 
munard; and  he  was  living  the  reincarnated 
battles  of  his  crucified  corn-patriots,  and 
awaiting  in  his  fancy,  as  did  his  sire  in 
reality,  for  the  volley  that  should  bring 
him  down.  Yonder  rode  the  haughty  com- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  335 

mander,  whose  sin-ill  voice  rang  cruelly 
in  the  sun-risen  dawn,  as  between  the 
long  lines  of  manacled  citizens  his  black 
charger  pranced.  "Step  out!"  he  could 
hear  the  buzzard  hiss,  "you  look  intelligent; 
step  out!"  Which  mandate  meant:  you 
are  to  be  shot  to  death  against  a  deadwall ! 
And  the  citizen  thus  addressed  would  take 
three  paces  forward.  "Away  with  him" 
or  her,  would  scream  . . .  .*  And  thus  per- 
ished 40,000  Paris  workfolk,  whose  ultra- 
optimism  and  lack  of  self-wisdom  had  cost 
them  both  their  lives  and  their  cause. 

That  was  forty  years  ago ;  but  its  history 
could  never  die.  "Step  out,  you  look  in- 
telligent," unconsciously  lisped  the  ashen 
lips  of  the  Frenchman ;  and  Jason  repeated 
mechanically,  "step  out,  you  look  intel- 
ligent!" To  be  intelligent,  that  was  the 
crime,  for  to  be  intelligent  was  to  be  a 
menace  to  the  authority  of  tyranny. 

Jason  thought  of  the  Dick  Military  Law 
in  America,  with  its  mandate  of  "shoot 
or  be  shot  at  the  order  of  the  President!" 
Then  a  sickness  came  stealing  over  him, 
and  Joe  saw  in  his  face  that  he  had  aged. 

It  was  twilight  when  they  turned  to 
go,  and  with  the  falling  shadows  and  falling 
dew  came  strange  whisperings  through  the 


(•The  military  fiend  who  gave  the  orders  to  have  the 
Communards  shot,  and  whose  name,  for  mercy's  sake,  is  here 
suppressed,  because  he  subsequently  became  a  Socialist  and  a 
member  of  the  French  Parliament.) 


336  THE   TORCH   OP   REASON. 

stilly  night,  whisperings  such  as  only  Com- 
munards may  hear. 

Through  the  English  Channel  they  sailed 
and  up  the  Thames  to  London,  then  into 
the  Baltic  Sea  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  the 
last  of  the  Russian  butchers  had  been 
driven  into  the  sea.  The  German  Empire 
next  they  visited,  after  which  a  year  was 
spent  among  the  lesser  nations,  teaching 
them  co-operation  and  helping  them  on  to 
their  new  Socialistic  feet. 

In  Berlin  they  visited  the  great  national 
Zoo,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  making  the 
acquaintance  of  " Dutch"  Bill,  the  subdued 
"war  lord"  and  deposed  Emperor,  who  had 
been  given  a  job  as  animal  feeder.  For 
Bill  just  simply  could  not  live  away  from 
both  blood  and  gunpowder,  and  the  com- 
rades were  disposed  to  be  generous. 

Now  here  they  were  in  the  waters  of 
Newfoundland,  with  but  one  more  great 
mission  unperformed.  This  accomplished, 
Jason  Sands,  together  with  his  son,  would 
revisit  the  old  home  high  up  among  the 
New  Hampshire  mountains. 

In  each  port  visited,  they  had  been  the 
recipients  of  every  known  form  of  welcome 
from  the  united  hosts  of  the  I.  I.  Ds.  As 
they  sailed  out  past  the  "links"  into  the 
open  sea,  their  farewell  from  St.  Johns 
was  no  less  demonstrative.  Jason  watched 
the  receding  city  on  the  hill,  aflame  with 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  337 

red  silk  banners,  suddenly  cut  off  from 
view  as  they  rounded  the  southwestern 
promontory.  St.  Pierre,  Miquelon,  loomed 
up  before  them  as  they  dropped  Cape  Race 
and  shot  across  Placentia  Bay.  Jason  re- 
membered that  other  September  back  there 
on  the  "Broken  Bone,"  when  he  had 
packed  sack  and  fought  wolves  that  night 
on  the  ice-wall.  Also  he  thought  of  Leland 
Tannerhill,  and  wondered  what  he  must  be 
thinking  of  him  and  his  promise  to  be  home 
early  in  that  September  now  four  years 
agone. 

But  it  was  of  Ben  Page  that  he  most 
was  thinking.  What  of  his  old  partner, 
whom  he  had  left  at  the  top  of  the  world 
and  alone  ?  Suppose  Ben  had  followed  him 
and  fell  in  with  the  grey  devils  he  had 
baffled?  Or  what  if  he  had  never  returned 
from  the  "Hedgehog?"  How  could  he 
know  that  Leland  had  ever  received  that 
letter?  Perhaps  Ben  had  succeeded  in  get- 
ting out,  and  that  he  had  made  his  way  to 
Raven  Roost  in  safety,  and  that  he  was 
still  there  waiting  for  him!  He  reproved 
himself  that  he  had  not  cleared  up  this 
matter  at  once  and  set  himself  right  with 
his  conscience  and  his  old  friends.  But 
here  they  were  foaming  past  St.  Pierre,  the 
Agitator  throwing  up  a  white  crest  of  boil- 
ing spray  in  a  wake  that  aimed  northward 
of  Cape  Ray  and  the  Anticosti  Islands. 


338  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

It  was  one  of  those  dreamy,  sunny  after- 
noons when  men  are  glad  with  life.  The 
sea,  oft  so  wild  and  turbulent  here  in  the 
St.  Lawrence  Gulf,  rolled  drowsily  and 
peacefully,  while  myriads  of  feathered  sea 
things  of  every  name  and  nature  squawked 
and  scaled  the  cliffs  and  sky,  af right  at  the 
strange  porpoise-like  monster  that  ripped 
so  swiftly  through  them  as  they  skimmed 
the  foam-crested  swells. 

Miquelon  was  deserted.  Once  the  ren- 
dezvous of  "wool-pullers,"  with  the  coming 
of  Socialism  smuggling  was  a  trade  that  no 
longer  paid;  consequently  the  business  was 
abandoned.  St.  Pierre  was  the  headquar- 
ters and  had  belonged  to  France.  A  bald 
knob  of  barren  rock,  without  a  leaf  or 
shrub  of  green  to  relieve  the  forbidding 
aspect  of  its  ashen  grey,  it  was  an  unin- 
viting haven  to  any  whose  ideals  rose 
higher  than  the  code  of  the  blackjack  and 
the  ethics  of  the  thief.  Here  was  "made," 
bottled  and  labeled  with  the  importers'  la- 
bel of  a  fictitious  French  winer,  "BEST 
OLD  EXTRA  DEY  CHAMPAGNE," 
etc.,  which  sold  well  to  the  tin  horn  sports 
of  Boston  and  New  York  as  the  "clear 
quill!" 

Smugglers  were  seldom  caught.  They 
were  indeed  "wool-pullers."  How  could 
they  be  expected  to  be  punished  when  the 
officials  of  every  government  on  the  civil- 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  339 

ized  earth  were  the  ringleaders  of  the 
smuggler  fraternity,  and  who  furnished  the 
srovernment  stamp  of  cancellation  at  the 
"port  of  entry"  to  the  moonshiners  to  be 
used  as  needed? 

As  they  feathered  foam  through  the 
Strait  of  Belle  Isle  and  dashed  into  the 
Labrador  Current,  Jason  acquainted  Cap- 
tain Joe  with  his  wish,  and  to  his  surprise 
he  found  the  brusque  navigator  eager  for 
the  adventure.  The  crew,  also,  he  found 
ready  to  a  man  for  the  search,  although 
they  had  been  absent  years  from  their  re- 
spective homes  without  rest  or  furlough. 
It  was  only  a  matter  of  a  few  thousand 
miles,  his  son  reassured  him,  a  mere  outing 
of  not  more  than  a  week  at  the  outside. 
Besides,  it  was  right  on  their  way  to  the 
north  pole,  whither  they  were  bound. 

They  would  find  Ben  Page,  positively 
declared  Quimby  Sands  to  his  adoring 
father,  for  nothing  could  elude  the  eye  of 
the  little  Comet,  and  he  would  pilot  her 
himself.  Jason  should  go  along,  and  if 
still  in  the  North  country,  they  would  bring 
him  safely  back. 

Through  Davis  Strait  and  Baffin's  Bay 
and  out  into  the  frozen  Arctic  Ocean  sped 
the  wonderful  thing  of  fire,  frightening 
the  Eskimos  along  the  old  trail  of  the 
former  (fake)  pole  hunters,  melting  her  way 
as  she  went.  Ice  was  no  hindrance  to  the 


340  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

progress  of  the  Agitator.  She  could  dissi- 
pate an  ice  floe  ten  miles  in  advance  with 
her  finder  charged  and  focused,  and  it  was 
beautiful  the  way  she  mowed  down  the 
bergs. 

They  had  squandered  a  full  thirty  days' 
running  in  and  out  among  the  bays  and 
islands,  from  the  Hudson  Bay  to  Beaufort 
Sea,  astonishing  and  amusing  the  natives, 
and  being  in  turn  entertained  by  them, 
Tales  of  frightful  cruelty  and  exploitation 
of  them  by  the  pole-fakers  they  told.  They 
were  not  pole-liunters,  but  thieves.  They 
came  to  the  settlements  with  their  ships 
laden  to  the  waterline  with  cheap  trash  for 
trading.  A  package  of  needles  costing  ten 
cents  in  Boston  or  New  York  fetched  a 
polar  bear  skin;  and  for  a  cast-iron  sheath- 
knife  an  Eskimo  gave  up  a  black  fox. 
Candy,  whisky  and  tobacco  of  the  cheapest 
quality,  these  great  American  humbugs  had 
swapped  off  on  the  helpless  and  unsophisti- 
cated children  of  the  snows,  carrying  away 
in  return  all  their  store  of  fur,  ivory  and 
curios,  along  with  all  the  best  dogs,  sledges 
and  young  men. 

Each  year  the  ships  came  laden  with 
trashy  trinkets,  departing  to  leave  behind 
the  pallor  of  poverty,  shaming  the  cold  red 
glow  of  the  somber  midnight  sun.  There 
was  no  limit  to  Capitalism.  It  reached  its 
taloned  tentacles  out  to  the  remotest  cor- 
ners of  earth,  feeling  among  the  cold  crags 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  341 

and  colder  icebergs,  it  cruelly  picked  the 
pockets  of  the  simple  frost  folk,  leaving 
them  to  strive  hungrily  and  forlornly 
through  the  frozen  six  months  night. 

Then  back  would  go  the  "explorer,"  or 
rather,  the  exploiters,  to  civilization,  to  be 
wined  and  dined  and  decorated  with  col- 
lege degrees,  insignias  of  honor  and  gold 
braid.  Society  women  kissed  them;  news- 
papers lauded  them;  cities  presented  them 
with  their  keys,  and  the  rostrum  welcomed 
them.  To  one  of  these  eminent  pole-finders, 
the  Thieves'  League  of  St.  Louis  once  gave 
$20,000  for  a  lecture  at  its  centennial  cele- 
bration. Later  some  one  yelled  "fake!" 
whereupon  the  Thieves'  League  came  out 
with  the  astonishing  information  to  the  ef- 
fect that  they  had  known  all  along  he  was 
a  fake,  but  that  they  knew  he  would  draw  a 
crowd ! 

All  this  was  said  to  be  scientific  research ! 
And  the  people  fell  for  it  regularly,  as  they 
fell  for  all  the  rest  of  the  snides  and  hum- 
bugs upon  which  their  muddled  mentalities 
were  annually  fed. 

But  all  that  thing  was  a  brainstorm  of 
history.  Here  was  the  Agitator  at  the 
magnetic  vortex  under  the  North  Star. 
They  had  found  Ben  Page,  frozen  to  death, 
and  he  had  been  dead  in  the  snow  four 
years.  Now  it  was  a  dash  for  the  pole. 

It  was  the  last  of  the  summer  solstice  in 
the  land  of  the  midnight  sun,  and  over  the 


342  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

frozen  end  of  the  world  was  coming  the 
long  cold  sleep. 

They  were  in  latitude  85°  north,  on  the 
75th  meridian.  Here  both  mercury  and  the 
spirit  glasses  froze,  and  the  cold  was  im- 
measurable. Everything  was  dark  with  the 
blackness  of  ink,  save  for  the  Aurora  Bo- 
realis,  which  flashed  only  at  intervals,  then 
subsided,  like  the  geysers  of  the  Yellow- 
stone. With  the  power  of  all  her  electro- 
radium  currents  playing  full  blast  into  the 
ice-pack,  and  with  Jack  Philips,  Doctor 
Spanto  and  his  Indian  wife,  Jason  Sands, 
his  son  and  little  Yama  Yama  huddled 
around  the  mirror  scope  in  the  operating 
room,  Captain  Joe  signaled  Billy  Self  for 
speed,  and  away  they  shot,  straight  into  a 
mountain  of  ice  and  snow. 


"At  full  speed  straight  into  a  mountain  of  ice!" 


CHAPTER   X. 
THE  RAWHIDE  THONG. 

Farewell !  Farewell !  the  sands  run  low, 

The  Hand  of  Time  the  Hour  hath  marked; 

A  doleful  knell  tolls  o'er  the  snow 
As  on  a  mystic  sea,  embarked 

On  phantom  ship,  goes  out  into  the  Night 
A  spectral  voyager  on  his  spectral  flight ! 

Dimly  in  a  window  on  the  hillside,  a 
smoky  lamp  burned  low  into  the  gray 
dawn.  Faithful  and  long  it  had  kept  its 
beacon  vigil  for  one  who  never  came. 
Down  the  bald  mountain  screeched  the 
wintry  winds,  piling  the  white  snow  high 
against  the  oaken  door  and  sifting  in  un- 
welcomely  through  the  generous  crevices  of 
the  weather-beaten  old  mansion,  it  built 
white  pyramids  on  the  worn  floor  and 
frosted  the  black  coals  in  the  cold  fireplace. 

The  window  was  thick  with  frost;  but 
the  warmth  of  the  smoky  little  lamp  had 
kept  its  glowing  shape  melted  through 
though  the  night  was  cold. 

A  lone  mouse,  spurned  on  by  hunger, 
came  out  of  her  hole  in  the  corner,  scam- 
pered timidly  toward  the  open  kitchen 
door,  struck  the  thin  frost  flakes  and  scam- 
pered back  again  to  disappear  into  the  cel- 
lar from  whence  she  came. 

(343) 


344  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

It  was  a  bitter  north-easter  in  the  New 
Hampshire  hills,  the  fiercest  of  all  the  year. 

Stretched  upon  an  ancient  patchwork 
coverlet,  a  great  brown  hand  jerked  pal- 
siedly.  It  was  not  as  brown  as  in  other 
days,  and  where  once  the  horns  of  honest 
toil  thickened  the  broad  palm,  the  flabby 
yellow  skin  now  hung  loosely  around  the 
hubbly  bones.  On  a  pillow,  frayed,  and 
soiled  with  age  and  unceasing  service, 
shook  feebly  from  side  to  side  a  white  head 
across  whose  sunken  temple  ran  a  deep  red 
scar. 

It  was  Leland  Tannerhill! 

On  the  night  the  packages  came  from 
Alaska,  bringing  the  letters  from  Jason 
Sands  and  Ben  Page,  Leland  had  trimmed 
and  filled  the  little  lamp  and  placed  it  in 
the  window  where  his  old  friend  might  see 
it  when  he  should  come  over  the  hill  a  mile 
away.  Vaguely  he  knew  that  a  welcome 
beacon  in  the  window  of  a  loved  one  had 
lightened  many  a  weary  foot,  though  none 
had  ever  gleamed  for  him.  Stanley  Lark 
had  marveled  at  the  delicate  pains  with 
which  the  thoughtful  farmer  polished  the 
globe  and  turned  the  wick  just  so  high  ere 
they  left  for  the  lecture  on  that  eventful 
night;  but  when  again  he  turned  into  the 
lane  by  the  red  schoolhouse,  that  lamp  beck- 
oned a  joyous  greeting  to  him. 

When  the  shyster  lawyer,  Jibbs,  fled  the 
town  after  hurling  the  missile  that  felled 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  345 

the  good  old  man,  he  left  the  village  in  a 
state  of  awful  terror  and  confusion.  Never 
had  there  been  such  excitement.  Rumors, 
red  and  terrible,  were  rife  on  every  tongue. 
Murder,  arson,  abduction  and  robbery  were 
included  in  the  program  of  crime,  and  all 
these  were  systematically  charged  to  and 
fastened — momentarily  on  the  Socialists! 
Next  morning  out  came  the  Aberrant  with 
a  lying  Extra  which  wound  up  with  the 
usual  capitalistic  coloring  in  a  flaring  ar- 
ticle with  a  full  page  caption  and  all  in 
heavy  black  type: 

SOCIALIST     RIOTERS     TURN    LEC- 
TURE INTO  HOLOCAUST 
OF  MURDER. 


GUN    FIGHTER    FROM    TEXAS    MEETS    His 

MATCH  IN  BLOODY  DUEL  WITH  OUR 

HEROIC  SHERIFF  LARDING! 


OLD   TURNCOAT   TANNERHILL,   THE   RAVEN 

ROOST  HERMIT,  BEATEN  AND 

LEFT  FOR  DEAD! 


Madison  Jibbs  Missing,  Windows  Shat- 
tered with  Flying  Lead.  Six  Maimed 
Men  in  Hospital!  Many  Arrests  Al- 
ready Made,  with  More  to  Follow! 

On  another  page  appeared  the  following 
editorial,  as  if  one  malevolent  lie  had  to  be 
backed  up  by  another: 


346  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

"  FODDER  FOR  THE  NOOSE  AND 

THE  DUNGEON. 
<•<«.-•«   The  fact  ig^  Leian(i  TannerMll 

is  and  always  has  been  a  drunkard.  We 
say  it  literally  and  unequivocatingly — a 
low-down  drunkard. 

"On  Saturday  noon  he  drove  up  to  the 
Tavern,  his  General  Lyon  trotter  all  af oam, 
and  so  beastly  drunk  that  he  could  not 
stand.  Falling  out  of  his  buggy  into  the 
arms  of  the  proprietor,  he  had  to  be  car- 
ried inside  and  put  to  bed.  Only  for  the 
charity  of  kindly  disposed  citizens — a  no- 
table characteristic  of  our  people,  by  the 
way — his  spent  and  affrighted  animal  would 
have  run  away,  so  eager  it  seemed  to  be 
rid  of  its  cruel  master.  Evidence  of  the 
horrible  beating  it  had  received  revealed 
itself  in  the  long  rope-like  welts  that  ran 
from  flank  to  withers  the  length  of  its  beau- 
tiful black  body.  It  is  a  crying  shame  that, 
under  the  virtuous  folds  of  Old  Glory  and 
our  sacred  Republican  institutions,  so 
shameful  an  outrage  can  find  tolerance  in 
our  model  city. 

"Now,  we  feel  it  won't  be  necessary  for 
the  Aberrant  to  dwell  further  on  the  un- 
godly record  of  this  old  hypocrite.  The 
history  of  the  Tannerhills  and  the  Sands' 
is  too  well  known  to  require  further  com- 
ment. However,  suffice  it  to  say  in  passing, 
and  lest  we  forget,  that  old  TannerhilPs 
red-headed  sister  was  notoriously  a  com- 


THE   TORCH   OP  REASON.  347 

mon  bawd.  After  wrecking  the  life  of  our 
most  respected  and  beloved  citizen  and 
banker,  Mr.  Pert  Perry,  whom  she  with 
her  cattish  cunning  succeeded  in  infatuat- 
ing, she  died  having  a  bastard  kid  by  Jason 
Sands.  This  Jason  Sands,  by  the  way,  was 
another  of  the  same  stripe  of  vermin  and 
great  cronies  with  the  Tannerhills  until  he 
ran  away  to  avoid  fathering  the  brat.  Since 
his  disappearing  act  twenty  years  or  more 
ago,  no  trace  of  him  has  ever  reached  these 
parts.  Rumor  has  it,  however,  that  he 
worked  all  over  the  country  mostly  in  shoe 
factories  under  the  alias  of  Alfred  Allen; 
but  this  has  never  been  confirmed. 

"At  the  Town  Hall  last  night,  mob  vio- 
lence and  red-throated  anarchy  ran  riot. 
The  Socialists-anarchists,  in  the  height 
of  a  florid  outburst  from  the  big  Texan 
fire  eater,  leaped  to  their  feet,  shot  out  the 
lights,  and  in  the  turmoil  of  mad  confusion 
following  shouts  of  'to  hell  with  the  con- 
stitution'; 'down  with  women  and  chil- 
dren'; 'divide  up  the  property';  'damn  the 
capitalists,'  etc.,  they  succeeded  in  fatally 
wounding  old  Tannerhill — one  of  their  ac- 
cursed dupes;  damaging  the  Town  Hall — 
the  city's  property — to  the  tune  of  hun- 
dreds of  dollars,  and  in  some  mysterious 
manner  making  away  with  our  most  prom- 
ising young  lawyer,  Madison  Jibbs.  The 
two  Boston  boys  are  lying  at  death's  door 
in  the  Hardback  hospital,  and  a  disgrace 


348  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

has  been  heaped  upon  this  pious  com- 
munity that  a  hundred  years  cannot  efface. 
"A  further  account  of  the  devilish  doings 
of  these  bloody  disturbers  of  the  public 
confidence  and  morality  will  be  found  on 
another  page  in  this  issue.  It  is  the  hope 
of  the  editor  of  this,  the  people's  faithful 
journal,  that  all  good  citizens  will  unite 
in  a  grand  effort  to  bring  the  law  to  bear, 
purge  our  skirts  of  this  crying  shame  and 
live  down  the  disgrace  we  have  so  inno- 
cently suffered  at  the  hands  of  these  cloven- 
hoofed  degenerates.  Let  this  God-fearing 
people  arise  and  scour  the  country  for  these 
foreign  terrorists,  that  they  may  be  brought 
to  justice  as  an  example  and  warning  to 
others  of  their  ilk." 

This  was  the  Aberrant.  Nay,  this  was 
the  Press.  Thus  it  was  that  public  opin- 
ion was  moulded — and  made  moldy — by  the 
lying  Scribes  and  Pharisees  of  Capitalism. 
From  out  their  whited  sepulchres  through 
these  vitriol-tongued  mouthpieces  issued 
forth  such  as  this  and  voluminous  other  vi- 
tuperative misinformation,  until  the  un- 
thinking populace  had  become  prejudiced, 
poisoned,  and  turned  like  tempered  steel 
against  both  truth  and  reason. 

But  the  Aberrant  was  not  a  marker  in 
comparison  with  the  daily  press.  There 
were  pandering  sycophants  in  the  editorial 
sanctums  of  these  mercenary  old  journal- 
istic prostitutes  beside  which  the  puerile 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  349 

one-horse  editor  of  the  Aberrant  looked 
like  an  angel  chick  just  pipping  the  shell. 
For  four  of  the  bitterest  months  that  ever 
mortal  flesh  and  blood  bore  up  under, 
Leland  Tannerhill  clung  to  life.  When  the 
bloody  stone  brought  him  down,  Rec  Cotton 
saw  and  knew  the  thing  to  be  done.  Rec 
was  a  happy-go-lucky  good  fellow,  who 
knew  how  to  both  laugh  and  fight.  His 
heart  was  big  and  always  in  the  right  place. 
He  had  known  Leland  Tannerhill  since  his 
first  memories,  and  he  knew  he  was  a  good 
man.  While  others  wrung  their  hands  and 
whined  their  "poor  fellows"  and  "too 
bads"  into  ears  that  heard  not,  Rec  lit  out 
for  a  doctor  and  to  fetch  Black  Raven. 

With  the  hurt  hurriedly  dressed,  his  head 
swathed  in  bandages  improvised  from  the 
Texan's  suit  case,  Leland  absolutely  refused 
to  stay,  announcing  that  he  was  ready  and 
feeling  able  to  take  the  eight-mile  ride  back 
home.  Rec  offered  to  go  along  and  drive; 
but  the  plainsman  needed  no  introduction 
to  horses,  and  with  his  wounded  comrade 
securely  encircled  in  his  long  left  arm,  he 
straightened  the  eager  young  stallion 
around  the  north-east  corner  back  of  the 
old  brick  Post  Office  and  headed  straight 
for  Raven  Roost. 

The  moon  was  just  dropping  down  be- 
hind the  Bridgewater  mountains.  Like  a 
huge  prehistoric  serpent  lay  the  long,  nar- 
row mill  pond  above  the  old  grist  mill  dam. 


350  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Crouching  black  and  shadowy  along  the 
roadside,  dorsaled  and  scaled  with  snags 
and  stumps,  it  looked  like  a  sleeping  dragon 
mounted  by  sleeping  spooks.  The  colt  was 
fresh  and  only  the  darker  objects  were  visi- 
ble, momentarily,  as  they  sped  on  into  the 
night. 

"Give  him  his  head,  Comrade;  I  always 
do.  Kave  knows  the  way  and  never  makes 
a  blunder.'  Hosses  sees  in  the  night," 
weakly  volunteered  the  wounded  man,  and 
Stanley  let  a  foot  of  the  lines  slip  through 
his  fingers.  That  was  a  familiar  sign,  and 
the  horse  understood.  He  evinced  his  grati- 
tude by  a  playful  toss  of  the  head  and  a 
marked  increase  in  speed. 

It  was  late,  as  time  is  reckoned  in  the 
country,  and  they  had  a  straight  road. 
Black  Raven,  though  only  a  colt,  was  one 
of  those  intelligent  animals  which  learn 
from  experience  how  to  take  advantage  of 
reserve  energy.  When  he  cut  around  Al 
Willoughby's  and  pitched  over  the  gravelly 
knoll  above  Eben  Howe's,  he  was  trotting 
beautifully,  taking  the  little  buggy  along 
with  its  two  heavy  occupants  smoothly  with 
his  great  strength,  and  at  a  three-minute 
clip,  which  he  had  never  for  once  slackened. 
But  when  he  lit  into  the  stretch  of  straight, 
level  road  at  the  foot  of  Winding  Hill,  the 
splendid  creature  fairly  flew!  He  seemed 
scarcely  to  touch  the  ground.  With  this 
spurt  of  speed  was  generated  a  momentum 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  351 

which  carried  them  half  way  to  the  summit, 
and  within  one  pitchpole  of  the  old  water- 
ing-trough. This  gained,  he  drank  deeply 
of  the  gurgling  water  that  flowed  freely  out 
of  a  cool  spring  in  the  hillside  and  tumbled 
from  a  wooden  spout  into  the  mossy  trough, 
to  go  spilling  generously  over  the  brim  and 
off  down  the  mountain  on  its  winding  way 
to  the  lake. 

The  Westerner  knew  how  to  handle  trou- 
ble. He  had  been  there  before.  Up  to  this 
point  in  the  journey  little  had  been  said, 
for  there  really  was  nothing  relevant  to 
talk  about  of  which  both  men  were  not 
equally  familiar.  Besides,  neither  man  was 
in  a  very  talkative  mood. 

The  night  was  cool,  but  Stanley  was  hot 
— hot  in  more  ways  than  one — and  he 
wanted  some  of  that  laughing  water  that 
he  knew  was  cold  and  sweet  and  pure. 

Wishing  to  appear  conservatively  un- 
solicitous,  though  inwardly  he  was  deeply 
concerned  for  his  companion's  condition,  he 
ventured,  offhandedly:  "How  goes  the  bat- 
tle, old  boy;  shall  we  have  a  drink ?"  To 
his  great  amazement  the  only  response  was 
a  childish  giggle,  uncanny  and  machine- 
like!  More  than  anything  else,  it  resem- 
bled the  mechanical  jangle  of  a  phonograph 
reproducing  the  record  of  a  laughing  boy. 
The  next  thing  Stanley  knew,  and  without 
warning,  over  the  wagon  wheel  went  Le- 
land  Tannerhill,  with  the  agility  of  a  mon- 


352  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

key,  falling  face  down  where  the  trough 
overflowed  in  the  weeds  and  mud. 

To  prevent  this  last  calamity  were  im- 
possible, so  unexpectedly  had  it  occurred. 
The  Texas  leaped  after  the  delirate  suf- 
ferer; the  colt  ran  away,  and  there  they 
were! 

With  the  horse  and  buggy  gone,  and  in 
the  dark,  the  task  of  getting  the  helpless 
and  wounded  man  home  was  no  holiday 
celebration,  even  for  a  man  of  Stanley 
Lark's  size  and  strength.  He  could  toss  a 
bale  of  cotton,  or  shoulder  a  mule ;  but  here 
was  a  man  who  was  his  match,  and  the  man 
was  out  of  his  head!  He  babbled  like  a 
schoolboy,  laughed  like  a  maniac,  and  ab- 
solutely refused  to  budge  an  inch  away 
from  that  old  watering  trough. 

The  aim  of  the  shyster,  Jibbs,  had  been 
at  him,  Stanley  knew  that.  That  it  had 
found  a  different  mark  mattered  not  in 
the  least  to  the  cowardly  perpetrator.  The 
stone  had  done  its  work,  and  the  cur  had 
made  good  his  escape. 

"Here,  Jason.  Catch  him!  Catch  him! 
—that  green  frog.  Cracky!  ain't  it  hot? 
Let's  peel  off  and  get'n  the  tub!"  These 
and  other  childish  incoherences  were  some 
of  the  wild  wanderings  voiced  in  rapid  suc- 
cession, as  the  demented  victim  of  a  would- 
be  assassin,  in  fancy,  played  again  as  he 
had  played  there  in  his  boyhood  with  his 
one  male  companion  in  the  shade  by  the 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  353 

old  watering-trough.  He  was  living  back 
in  the  yesteryears  of  his  youth,  and  Stanley 
Lark  was  Jason  Sands — of  course!  Who 
else  could  he  be  ?  For  he  never  played  with 
any  other  boy. 

It  mattered  not  that  it  was  dark.  He 
guessed  he  knew  where  he  was  and  what  he 
was  doing !  It  was  hot  out  there  in  the  sun, 
he  told  his  companion,  and  when  they 
wanted  him  to  spread  hay  they  could  sing 
out!  He  addressed  Stanley  as  "Jase,"  and 
they  were  going  to  have  some  fun  in  that 
old  trough  and  that's  all  there  was  about  it! 

The  Socialist  agitator  knew  something  of 
crazy  people.  Strategy  counted  for  more 
than  force  in  a  crisis  like  this,  he  decided,  so 
began  overhauling  his  wits  for  a  cunning  to 
match  the  cunning  of  insanity.  The  situa- 
tion was  becoming  clear  to  him.  He  must 
humor  his  unfortunate  comrade,  take  ad- 
vantage of  every  opening,  and  gradually 
win  him  around  deftly  with  some  sort  of 
harmless  deception,  now  that  he  was  help- 
lessly a  madman,  and  therefore  irrespon- 
sible. 

They  were  high  up  on  the  hillside  and  the 
sky  was  clear.  The  moon  had  gone  down; 
but  large  objects  were  more  or  less  dis- 
tinctly visible  in  the  starlight,  mingled  with 
the  shadowy  forms  of  the  trees  by  the  road- 
side. Stanley  could  make  out  that  Leland 
was  getting  his  clothes  off,  and  he  hadn't  as 
yet  taken  that  drink  of  water.  Here  was  a 


354  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

chance  to  test  a  trick  and  he  lost  no  time  in 
availing  himself  of  it. 

"Come  on,  Leal,  let's  have  a  drink  'fore 
we  get  in,"  he  invited,  assuming  his  most 
careless  manner,  speaking  rapidly  at  the 
same  time  and  in  his  most  captivating,  boy- 
ish tones.  His  change  of  manner  acted  like 
magic.  The  battle  was  won.  It  was  now 
only  a  question  of  time  and  the  application 
of  tactics. 

"All  right,  Jase;  you  first.  Catch  it  out 
of  the  spout;  tastes  better,"  came  the  in- 
sant  rejoinder,  and  Stanley  smiled  in  spite 
of  himself  and  obeyed  the  command. 

Nothing  like  that  drink  of  crystal  water 
that  sparkled  coldly  in  the  autumn  star- 
shine  had  ever  passed  his  lips !  In  the  years 
that  came  and  went  he  often  thought  of  it, 
and  once  while  lost  in  a  sand  storm  on  the 
funeral  trail  across  the  baked  desert  of 
Death  Valley,  the  memory  of  it  came  to 
him,  with  his  tongue  black  and  swollen, 
driving  him  water  mad. 

He  was  still  drinking  of  it  when  his  in- 
jured companion,  giggling  and  prattling, 
advanced  to  the  far  side  of  the  overflowing 
trough  and  leaned  forward,  white  and  nude 
as  an  iceberg.  What  was  to  be  done!  It 
would  never  do  to  let  a  sick  man  jump  into 
that  trough.  It  was  like  ice  water.  It 
might  mean  his  death.  Raven  Boost  was 
not  so  far;  why  not  seize  and  overpower 
him  at  once  and  stop  the  farcical  per- 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  355 

f  ormance  ?  He  had  taken  the  case  in  hand, 
promising  to  see  his  friend  through;  but 
he  had  not  bargained  for  such  as  this. 
Nevertheless,  he  had  gone  on  record.  And 
a  sick  man— a  comrade — was  his  charge. 

He  never  knew  just  why  he  did  it,  but 
the  thought  flashed  up  in  his  brain  like 
lightning,  and  like  lightning  out  flashed  his 
hands  into  the  trough,  splashing  gallons  of 
the  cold  water  flush  in  the  other's  face.  It 
was  an  heroic  remedy.  But,  and  as  its 
author  ever  after  maintained,  its  admin- 
istration was,  if  not  cowardly,  then  unbrave, 
to  say  the  least,  and  startling.  However,  it 
did  the  work  as,  most  probably,  nothing  else 
under  the  circumstances  could  have  done. 

What  transpired  during  the  next  half 
hour  always  was  a  mystery  to  Stanley  Lark. 
But  it  was  all  very  clear  to  Leland  Tanner- 
hill.  With  the  douche  of  cold  water  came 
the  return  of  sanity,  and  with  this  departed 
every  ounce  of  his  great  physical  strength. 
Uttering  a  piteous  groan,  he  clapped  both 
hands  to  his  bruised  temple  and  tottered 
backward.  But  his  alert  guardian  was 
there,  and  in  some  mysterious  way 
cushioned  the  fall. 

During  the  lucid  intervals  between 
periods  of  delirium  spanning  the  black 
chasm  from  September  to  December,  wait- 
ing for  the  fulfillment  of  Jason  Sands' 
promise,  the  one  inspiring  memory  had 
been  the  splendid  heroism  and  staunch 


356  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

friendship  of  Stanley  Lark.  Stanley  had 
stayed  with  him  a  whole  week  after  the  un- 
fortunate Town  Hall  calamity,  cancelling 
his  lecture  dates,  he  worked  manfully  and 
alone  to  restore  him  to  his  former  self; 
for,  in  a  measure,  he  could  not  help  feeling 
partly  to  blame  along  with  the  shyster 
lawyer  Jibbs.  Had  he  not  invited  him  to 
that  fatal  lecture  the  thing  might  not  have 
happened. 

Leland  never  forgot  with  what  apparent 
ease  and  patient  tenderness  the  brawny 
plainsman  lifted  him  and  bore  him  home 
in  his  arms  that  night  from  the  watering- 
trough.  Black  Raven  had  gone  straight  to 
the  big  barn  doors  and  waited.  It  was  his 
first  runaway,  and  it  was  a  good  thing  they 
had  left  the  gate  open  at  the  foot  of  the 
lane,  Leland  told  his  rescuer,  when  the 
affair  was  over  and  he  lay  restfully  once 
more  in  his  old-fashioned  rope  bed. 

Stanley's  first  thought  upon  reaching 
Raven  Roost  was  for  a  doctor.  But  when 
he  made  known  to  Leland  his  intention  to 
return  to  the  village  for  one  the  rugged 
mountain  hermit  protested  vigorously. 
"What's  the  use,  friend,"  he  objected.  "I 
ain't  goin'  ter  be  sick?  I'm  jist  kinder 
laid  off  fer'er  spell,  'pears  like.  Tain't  no 
marter  ter  make  a  great  touse  about.  Be- 
sides, I  hain't  had  no  doctor  a  pill-putterin' 
'round  here  since  no  knowin'  when.  I 
never  did  have  much  use  fer  'em  myself, 


THE    TORCH   OP   REASON.  357 

since  the  fever  had  me  under  cover.  Old 
Doctor  Tucker  used  to  come  over  the  moun- 
tain from  Hardback  ter  see  mother,  and 
they  had  him  for  Erm;  but  he  hain't  been 
here  since  they  went,  and  most  likely  he's 
been  took  off  his  self  by  this  time.  We've 
all  got  ter  go  at  the  apinted  time,  brother. 
Don't  be  af eared.  I  ain't,  but  I  do  wish 
Jase  would  come  fust;  someway  suthin' 
tells  me  I  hain't  long  fer  ter  stay  now,  and 
mebbe  God  knows  best." 

The  next  day  was  the  Holy  Sabbath. 

Over  in  Ashworth  the  mill  whistles  were 
silent,  but  there  was  an  unusual  stir  in  the 
sleepy  streets  and  the  church  bells  rang 
with  excxessive  vigor  and  persistence. 
Especially  furious  clanged  the  great  bell  in 
the  tall  steeple  of  the  Catholic  House  of 
God  on  the  hill.  There  was  something  in 
the  wind,  everybody  knew  that.  They  al- 
ways rang  that  way  for  a  fire,  and  once 
they  had  done  so  when  a  Bengal  tiger  es- 
caped from  the  Dingaling  Sisters  Circus; 
but  on  this  quiet  September  Sabbath  morn- 
ing there  were  neither  circuses  nor  fires  in 
town.  What  did  it  mean? 

There  was  "  Dirty  Dowie"  and  young 
Ramo  the  rummv  out  with  the  Aberrant 
Extra!  Evidently  it  was  a  good  thing— 
for  them.  They  were  tearing  wildly  through 
the  streets,  madlv  yelling,  "A-a-a-a-b'rran, 
tuxtry.  A-a-a-all  about  tV  Socialist  riot!" 
It  seemed  their  very  lives  depended  on  the 


358  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

sale  of  each  and  every  single  accursed  copy. 

It  was  a  great  message  that  went  up  to 
God  from  the  gold-crossed  spire  of  the 
Ashworth  Catholic  Church  on  that  autumn 
Sunday  morning!  Father  Glennon,  the 
good  priest,  was  at  his  best.  He  told  his 
gentle  flock  all  about  the  wicked  Socialists 
and  what  Socialism  was!  Many  of  the 
more  progressive  of  the  bead-prayers  had 
attended  the  forbidden  lecture  the  night 
before,  and  now  they  were  attending  an- 
other. They  had  disobeyed  the  injunction 
of  the  priest-craft,  and  the  holy  father  had 
gotten  wind  of  it.  The  very  air  was  preg- 
nant with  forebodings  of  dire  calamity! 
Every  ear  was  strained,  all  were  wide-eyed, 
and  every  mouth  hung  open. 

Father  Glennon  knew  what  Socialism 
was!  He  told  them  so!  That  was  proof 
enough !  All  they  had  to  do  was  to  believe 
it,  and  this  they  did,  in  total  It  was  im- 
mense !  And  it  could  be  seen  that  the  virus 
took!  It  was  like  swill  cast  before  hungry 
swine;  they  ate  it  up— head,  hide,  horns 
and  tail! 

Of  course,  that  he  had  never  read — not 
even  seen — a  single  scientific  work  on  the 
philosophy  of  Socialism  made  not  the 
slightest  difference.  Socialism  was  not  in- 
cluded in  the  canons  of  the  toe-suckers, 
and  that  was  enough  to  know  about  it! 
Papal  encyclics  always  contained  references 
to  it,  of  late,  but  such  references  were  only 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  359 

for  the  purpose  of  admonishing  that  this 
evil  thing,  Socialism,  must  not  be  thought 
about  nor  read. 

Father  Glennon  was  a  good  man.  He  had 
never  committed  murder,  as  far  as  was 
known,  and  that  half  of  younger  Hinkly- 
ville  resembled  him  only  intensified  the 
loyalty  of  the  young  wives  of  his  parish, 
and  aroused  no  suspicion  in  the  minds  of 
their  scapular-charmed  husbands.  Besides, 
he  was  good  looking,  fat  and  oily.  Well 
nourished,  he  looked  satisfied  and  exuded 
an  opulential  fragrance  that  lent  charm 
to  the  external  grace  of  his  unctuous  avoir- 
dupois. In  other  words,  he  was  bland  and 
solid,  and  his  appearance  made  a  "hit." 
Moreover,  he  was  dearly  beloved  and  highly 
respected,  as  good  men  should  be.  That  his 
word  was  taken  for  law  was  not  to  be  won- 
dered at.  So,  when  he  told  his  congregation 
that  the  Socialists  were  not  men  but  devils, 
who  could  be  rash  enough  to  doubt  him  ? 

To  the  rich  thieves  comprising  the  busi- 
ness element  of  his  Rome-ruled  herd,  he 
turned,  with  the  dangerous  intelligence  that 
Socialism  would  destroy  incentive!  To  the 
slaving  beasts  of  burden — the  "ninety 
and  nine"  per  cent. — he  loudly  proclaimed 
that  Socialism  would  compel  them  to 
"divide  up!"  The  humor  of  the  paradox, 
singularly  enough,  was  lost  on  the  farmed- 
out  intelligence  of  his  insolvent  citizenry. 
None  of  them  owned  anything,  the  most  of 


360  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

them  owed  something,  but  none  of  them 
knew  that  all  of  them  were  less  than  thirty 
days  from  the  poorhouse,  should  they 
chance  to  lose  their  precious  jobs! 

All  the  Aberrant  had  said  he  repeated  to 
them.  Then  he  told  them  a  whole  lot  of 
other  things  for  which  the  Aberrant  hadn't 
the  space.  Socialism  was  ungodly,  he  ex- 
plained. He  would  prove  it  to  them,  all 
unmindful  of  the  superfluity  of  such  proof. 
To  do  this  he  quoted  adequately  from  the 
hierarchical  screeds,  wherein,  as  by  the 
Holy  Bible,  anything  can  be  proved,  dis- 
proved, defended  or  condemned. 

He  told  them  that  Socialism  was 
born  in  a  barroom  on  a  free-lunch  counter; 
sired,  he  said,  by  delirium  tremens;  wet- 
nursed  by  anarchy  and  christened  in  a  mug 
of  sour  beer!  O,  he  had  its  pedigree  all 
right,  he  assured  them  of  that,  even  if  he 
hadn't  any  respect  for  his  tongue!  He 
characterized  Socialism  as  the  "Red  Spec- 
tre of  Discontent,"  and  said  it  was  rapidly 
rearing  its  horned  head  over  the  "glorious 
land  of  the  free"  like  a  destroying  angel! 

At  this  his  worshippers  were  horrified, 
and  looked  it.  They  stared  at  one  another, 
shuddered  and  crossed  themselves,  an  old 
woman  fainted  and  the  good  priest  trooped 
bravely  on!  When  the  holy  man  of  God 
had  finished,  the  Socialist  philosophy  was 
demolished;  all  the  agitators,  including 
Stanley  Lark,  had  been  drawn  and  quar- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  361 

tered,  burned  at  the  stake  or  hanged,  as 
pleased  his  pious  fancy,  and  the  avenging 
God  of  Romanism  rode  triumphant  astride 
a  white  thunder  cloud  over  a  chastened  and 
humble  world! 

The  editor  of  the  Aberrant  was  not  a 
Catholic.  But  he  was  a  capitalist— from  his 
throat  up — and  he  was  there.  He  knew  on 
which  side  his  bread  was  buttered!  All  the 
Protestant  churches  were  poor,  having 
dwindled  until  their  following  consisted  of 
the  venerable  old,  a  few  female  scandal- 
mongers of  the  middle  aged  and  their 
adopted  and  impressed  progeny,  and  a  few 
sallow  things  of  the  masculine  gender  but- 
toned up  neatly  in  black  frock  coats.  But 
their  was  scarcely  a  healthy-looking  indi- 
vidual among  the  extraneous  farrago  of  in- 
sipid human  tailings.  While  on  the  con- 
trary, the  Catholic  church  was  powerful; 
had  and  knew  how  to  get  the  "stuff,"  and 
could  "deliver  the  goods"  on  election  day. 

It  was  a  beautiful  fall  Sabbath  up  on  the 
wooded  hills,  and  Stanley  slept  like  an 
anchor  in  a  calm.  At  ten  o  'clock  he  slipped 
off  the  old  hair  lounge,  and  the  fall  awoke 
him.  But  Leland  slept  on.  The  Texan  did 
the  chores  after  the  manner  of  the  West; 
rustled  up  a  prodigious  layout  of  coarse 
but  wholesome  grub  for  two,  then  he  called 
Leland.  Hearing  no  response,  he  repeated 
the  summons  several  times.  Finally  he 
re-entered  the  room  where  the  bachelor  of 


362  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

sorrows  lay  still  in  the  soft  shaded  light, 
laid  a  hand  gently  on  the  white  forehead 
and  spoke.  There  was  no  movement  or 
sound  to  indicate  that  he  had  heard,  and  the 
effort  was  repeated,  this  time  a  little  louder, 
and  accompanied  by  a  gentle  shaking  of  the 
head.  Still  there  came  no  indication  of 
consciousness,  and  the  only  sign  of  life 
manifest  was  in  the  deep-drawn  breathing 
that  lifted  the  huge  chest  evenly  with  the 
respiratory  puissance  of  a  sleeping  god. 

At  12  o'clock  Stanley  went  back  to  the 
kitchen  and  attacked  the  lunch.  He  knew 
he  was  hungry;  but  never  before  had  he 
eaten  like  that.  In  just  fifteen  minutes  he 
had  swept  the  board  of  everything  but  the 
dishes,  going  back  twice  to  the  brick  oven 
for  more  beans — and  oh!  such  beans! 
Baked  beans,  that's  what  they  were,  and 
they  were  such  baked  beans  as  only  a  New 
Englander  can  bake.  Stanley  had  spoken 
in  every  town,  city  and  jerk-water  cross- 
roads in  the  United  States,  and  he  had 
eaten  some  baked  beans!  He  had  come  to 
know  that  the  term  was  an  elastic  one, 
possessed  of  as  many  meanings  as  there 
were  states,  and  as  many  variations  of  each 
separate  meaning  as  there  were  towns  in 
each  separate  state.  The  cooking  of  beans, 
like  the  shaping  of  intelligence,  was  largely 
environmental.  On  the  plains  they  were 
whatever  the  packing  houses  had  happened 
to  wrap  tin  around,  and  were  labeled 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  363 

"Boston  Baked  Beans,"  whether  canned  in 
Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Kansas  City  or 
Honolulu. 

Raven  Roost  mansion,  like  all  the  old 
puritanic  homes,  was  built  to  stand.  Its 
frame  was  of  oak  timbers  a  foot  square, 
hewn  and  mortised  by  hand  in  the  days 
before  saw  mills  and  machinery  were  known 
in  the  land.  In  each  of  the  four  corners 
stood  an  oaken  pillar  two  feet  in  diameter 
at  the  base,  tapering  to  twelve  inches  at  the 
top.  Out  into  the  finished  rooms  protruded 
the  sharp  angles  of  these  great  posts,  pre- 
senting the  appearance  of  the  architecture 
of  a  wooden  ship.  The  ten-foot  brick 
chimney  with  its  four  separate  compart- 
ments was  built  pyramidal  up  from  a  twen- 
ty-foot base  on  the  very  cellar  bottom.  In 
each  of  the  four  great  rooms  on  the  main 
floor  an  open  fireplace  served  the  double 
purpose  of  supplying  warmth  in  winter  and 
ventilation  in  summer.  Built  into  the 
chimney  above  the  one  in  the  kitchen  was 
a  big  brick  oven — big  enough  to  accommo- 
date a  cord-wood  stick,  and  variously  used 
to  smoke  hams,  try  out  fat  in  killing  time, 
and  as  a  hiding  place  for  the  jam.  Also 
it  was  here  that  the  regular  Saturday  baked 
beans  and  brown  bread  were  cooked;  and 
as  Leland  Tannerhill  was  more  vegetarian 
than  cannibal,  it  was  more  for  this  than  for 
any  other  purpose  that  he  had  kept  it  in 


364  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

commission  after  the  advent  of  the  modern 
cooking  range. 

Ever  since  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  first 
hacked  rye  among  the  stumps  and  stones  on 
the  New  England  coast,  it  had  been  the 
custom  each  Friday  morning  to  heat  up  the 
brick  oven.  This  heating  up  process  had 
become  a  fine  art  among  the  old  standbys, 
and  consisted  of  a  stuffing  with  dry  beach 
or  maple,  cordwood  length,  touching  off 
with  a  handful  of  pitchwood,  then  to  be 
left  alone,  the  dampers  set  just  so,  and  just 
so  long.  The  gathering  of  this  pitchwood 
was  also  an  important  factor  in  the  process 
of  bean  baking,  and  a  year's  supply  of  it 
was  always  sagaciously  laid  in  store  from 
the  roots  of  dead  Norway  pines  on  the 
mountain. 

Each  Friday  night  at  bed  time  the  ashes 
had  to  be  drawn,  and  with  the  great  oven 
a  cherry  red,  the  beans  and  brown  bread 
were  sealed  up  in  it  and  left  without  further 
attention  for  twenty-four  hours. 

"Bakin'  beans  in  the  ground  may  be  well 
enough  fer  some  folks;  but  give  me  my  old 
brick  oven  and  plenty  o'  good  dry  wood, 
and  come  rain  or  snow  they  ain't  no  outs 
about  it,  and  it  never  falls,"  Leland  had 
boasted  the  night  before,  as  he  dumped  a 
pint  of  red  molasses  on  top  of  an  eight- 
quart  stone  pot  of  yellow-eyes  and  clamped 
down  the  lid.  "Some  par-boils  'em  fust, 
but  thet  spiles  'em  fer  me.  I  allus  soak 
'em  over  night,  'n  soak  a  pound  of  half  fat 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  365 

and  half  lean  pork  ter  get  the  salt  out,  then 
slap  the  whole  thing  into  this  'ere  old  pot, 
fill  'er  up  with  water 'n  add  the  West  Injie 
last." 

Leland  had  been  a  day  behind  in  heating 
up  .the  oven  on  this  occasion,  and  Stanley 
had  been  a  witness  to  the  remarkable  per- 
formance of  "banking  beans  and  brown 
bread  the  last  thing  they  did  before  leaving 
the  night  before  for  the  lecture  in  the 
Town  Hall.  He  had  seen  and  eaten  what 
was  called  baked  beans,  which  same  con- 
sisted of  what  was  left  after  making  bean 
soup,  strained  and  baked  an  hour  or  two 
in  a  biscuit  tin  along  with  a  few  thin  strips 
of  bacon  for  flavoring,  and  called  "Herald" 
on  the  menus  in  their  eating  houses.  Also 
he  knew  that  the  cowboys  fried  them;  but 
the  St.  Louis  method  had  always  puzzled 
him.  "Baked  beans  in  the  city  that  wanted 
"a  million"  always  tasted  the  way  a  gar- 
bage wagon  smells,  and  might  easily  have 
been  mistaken  for  bits  of  raw  potato 
warmed  im  in  greasy  dishwater.  No  wonder 
thov  slandered  Boston.  Any  one  who  had 
ever  been  obliged  to  satisfy  hunger  with 
this  inimitable  concoction  should  be  par- 
doned for  such  slander. 

"Them  yarler-eves  is  the  Torsey  beau, 
gi'n  father  by  old  Mountain  Pete.  He 
traded  a  jug  o*  sap  beer  fer  the  seed  with 
Torsey,  way  back,  and  I  tell  you  what  they 
do  boat  all  arid  don't  you  forgot  it.  Thet 
old  Bracked  pot  has  baked  a  hundred  bushel 


366  THE   TORCH   OF  REASON. 

on  'em.    Jason  Sands  lias  eat  'em  out  o' 

thet  air,  and  Erm,  she "    Here  Leland 

had  broken  off  in  his  baked  bean  reminis- 
cences, drawing  the  back  of  his  hand  across 
his  eyes  pitiously  as  he  braced  the  long  iron 
poker  against  the  high  oven  door.  When 
Stanley  drew  them  forth  at  noon  the  next 
day  and  poured  them  out  steaming  into  a 
brown  earthen  crock,  they  were  hot,  fat  and 
juicy,  each  bean  retaining  its  shape  intact, 
inviting  with  their  rich,  nut-brown  color, 
fragrant  with  a  rare  appetizing  odor,  and 
mellow  as  the  ripe  lips  of  first  love.  Stanley 
Lark  never  forgot  those  baked  beans;  but 
often  in  his  speeches  he  would  refer  to  the 
incident,  and  always  with  a  longing,  a  long- 
ing that  came  regularly  on  each  Saturday 
night  but  that  was  never  thereafter 
satisfied. 

At  7  o'clock  Leland  awoke,  as  far  as  out- 
ward appearances  indicated,  well  as  ever. 
As  might  be  expected,  however,  there  was  a 
bad  swelling  in  the  left  temple  and  great 
soreness  of  the  whole  side  of  his  head;  but 
he  chatted  good-naturedly,  ate  a  remark- 
ably big  supper,  and  when  the  bell  in  the 
little  church  over  among  the  white  stones 
began  ringing  for  the  regular  Sunday  even- 
ing service,  he  took  down  the  little  black 
bible  from  the  mantel  shelf  and  cast  an  in- 
viting look  at  his  comrade  from  the  south- 
west. How  could  Stanley  Lark  refuse  him? 
Here  was  an  innocent  and  pious  man,  a 
man  who  believed  on  a  personal  God  Al- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  367 

mighty,  worshipping  him  as  he  was  taught 
in  childhood  to  do  and  revering  what  was 
said  to  be  His  Holy  Word  as  he  found  it 
in  the  little  black  bible,  and  firmly  believ- 
ing in  a  home  for  the  good  and  faithful 
over  the  Black  Ocean. 

It  had  been  many  a  day  since  Stanley 
Lark  sat  in  a  pew.  The  son  of  a  preacher, 
he  was  raised  a  Christian,  all  the  dogma  of 
capitalistic  orthodoxy  having  been  crammed 
into  him,  he  could  recall  a  time  when  he 
was  pickled  with  religion  from  outer  cuticle 
to  inner  caecum.  He  had  eaten  it,  drunk 
of  it,  walked  under  its  iron  rod  and  slept 
on  a  bed  of  it.  Moreover,  it  subsequently 
had  oozed  from  his  very  pores  like  sweat 
until  he  both  smelled  and  tasted  of  it.  They 
early  saw  that  he  was  made  of  good  preach 
timber,  and  so  straightway  packed  him  off 
to  a  college  of  theology  from  which  he 
graduated  with  highest  honors.  Then  began 
his  pulpit  career.  It  was  a  rapid  cruise, 
full  of  snags — for  his  flock — and  soon  over. 
" Heresy,"  that  was  the  charge,  and  at  the 
church  meeting  following  he  had  been  re- 
quested to  resign.  " Socialism,"  it  should 
have  been,  but  heresy  they  had  called  it,  and 
it  sufficed  as  well  as  anything,  just  so  he 
was  gotten  rid  of,  for  there  was  no  place 
in  the  pulpit  for  a  Socialist.  But  there 
was  room  in  the  Socialist  movement  for 
preachers.  And  now  here  he  was  accompany- 
ing Leland  Tannerhill  to  the  little  country 
church  to  hear  God's  appointed  apostle 


368  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

teach  of  brotherly  love,  peace  on  earth  and 
good  will  among  men,  and  how  that  the  Son 
of  God  rebuked  the  accusers  of  a  Magdalene 
with  the  challenge:  "He  who  is  without  sin 
among  you,  let  him  cast  the  first  stone." 

Before  entering  the  maple  growth  by  the 
deep-worn  path  at  the  corner  of  the  old 
house,  they  gathered  pinks  and  tea  roses 
which  Leland  insisted  upon  carrying,  hand- 
ling them  caressingly  and  tenderly  and  pro- 
tecting them  with  great  care.  At  the  far 
end  of  the  path  thev  came  out  of  the  woods 
and  climbed  the  little  hill  bv  the  same  old 
meeting  house  where  Jason  Sands  had  sung 
in  the  choir  with  Erma  when  they  were 
young. 

Between  a  weeping  willow  and  a  silver 
birch  they  halted.  Leland  fell  on  his  knees 
and  both  men  bared  their  heads.  Chiseled 
deep  on  a  white  headstone  was  the  follow- 
ing inscription  in  bold  square  letters: 

ERMA 
WIFE  OF  JASON  SANDS 

*  ® 
MATED  IN  PERFECT  LOVE 

4£      i"A 

•>•.*          "Wi* 

WEDDED  IN  SACRED 
MATRIMONY 

»  o 
MARTYRED 

«  & 

SHE  CAME  HERE  TO  REST 
DEC.  25th,  1890 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  369 

Jason  had  had  the  stone  lettered  and  ship- 
ped from  Boston  to  Leland,  and  Leland  saw 
to  its  erection  in  spite  of  the  old  folks,  who 
fought  against  it  bitterly.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  crossed  them,  and  the  last. 
The  quarrel  had  hastened  the  inevitable, 
Leland  knew  that,  but  no  pang  of  remorse 
had  he  ever  felt  because  of  it.  He  loved 
his  sweet  sister  because  she  was  pure,  and 
good.  Next  to  her  came  Jason,  his  one 
male  companion,  who  had  claimed  her  for 
his  mate.  His  dead  father  and  mother  had 
loved  their  children,  but  they  were  old 
and  set,  and  in  their  senility  they  had  tried 
to  apply  archaic  measures  to  new  ideas, 
which  has  ever  been  the  error  of  the  race. 

Placing  the  flowers  with  trembling  hands 
on  her  grave,  the  bereaved  brother  raised 
the  little  black  bible  over  her  sleeping  clay 
and  cried  out  in  tremulous  tones:  "O 
blessed  Jesus,  if  you  be  still  the  friend  o' 
sich  as  we,  and  hain't  gi'n  us  all  over  to 
Satan  ter  be  destroyed,  help  her  Jason,  and 
pint  out  the  way  to  me  fer  to  come  here 
whole  beside  her  at  last.  I  know  she's 
waitin',  and  I  want  her  to  meet  me  vender 
if  I'm  fit  ter  go.  Give  me  strength,  Lord, 
and  I'll  try  to  hold  out.  It  ain't  askin' 
much.  Amen." 

Leland  never  missed  the  Sunday  evening: 
service.  He  always  sat  alone  in  the  old 
family  pew,  unnoticed  by  the  better-than- 
thou  congregation,  especially  since  the 


370  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

young  city  minister  came.  But  to-night 
the  Tannerhill  pew  was  the  center  of  at- 
traction. It  was  coming,  Stanley  could  see 
that!  The  minister  had  a  telephone,  the 
only  one  between  Raven  Roost  and  Ash- 
worth,  and  the  wires  were  still  smoking. 
Unsophisticated  and  ever  optimistic,  Le- 
land  noticed  nothing  unusual  in  the 
leopardine  demeanor  of  the  dapper  little 
divine,  as  he  eyed  him  coldly  from  his  seat 
behind  the  old  pulpit. 

Stanley  swept  the  interior  of  the  musty 
old  sanctuary  with  swift  perception.  Down 
in  front  sat  the  "summer  folks"  from  the 
cities,  their  costly  opera  capes  flung  care- 
lessly over  white  shoulders.  They  looked 
out  of  place  among  the  rustics,  but  they  it 
had  been  who  had  brought  the  young 
preacher  from  the  city,  and  the  checks  he 
got  cashed  at  The  Bridge  bore  the  name  of 
a  well-known  banking  syndicate  of  Boston. 
That  the  head  of  the  aforesaid  banking  in- 
stitution was  a  notorious  stock  gambler  who 
trafficed  in  the  very  bread  of  starving 
millions  detracted  not  at  all  from  the  en- 
joyment of  his  tainted  pelf. 

After  the  usual  prelude  of  a  half  hour's 
doleful  psalm  singing,  the  holy  disciple  of 
the  meek  and  lowly  Carpenter  of  Nazareth 
arose.  Deftly  and  with  suave  legerdemain 
he  slyly  juggled  the  typewritten  manuscript 
on  the  open  bible  before  him,  and  the  ex- 
preacher  from  Texas  whispered  to  Leland 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  371 

that  it  was  going  to  be  a  "boiler  plate" 
sermon. 

"By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them." 

The  text  was  uttered  evidently  with  the 
most  studied  nonchalance,  deliberate,  clean 
cut,  and  painfully  slow.  He  seemed  look- 
ing at  nothing  in  particular,  but  before  the 
sting  had  had  time  to  soak  through  the  skin, 
the  godly  man  turned  his  little  black  eyes 
without  moving  his  head  sharply  in  the 
direction  of  the  Raven  Roost  hermit  and 
the  Socialist  agitator  from  Texas.  Every- 
body looked  hard  at  the  man  with  the  ban- 
dage around  his  head,  the  jaw  of  the  Texan 
shot  out  perceptibly  as  he  ran  his  huge  right 
hand  through  his  mop  of  thick  black  hair.  It 
looked  like  cloudy  weather  under  his  lower- 
ing: brow,  and  the  painted  and  powdered 
down-country  ladies  fidgetted  nervously  in 
their  cushioned  pews. 

With  great  displav  of  righteous  certi- 
tude and  ultra-pietv  the  preacher  read  from 
the  seventh  chapter  of  St.  Matthew,  and 
when  he  came  to  the  fifteenth  verse  wherein 
it  is  written:  "Beware  of  false  prophets, 
which  come  to  you  in  sheep's  clothing,  but 
inwardlv  they  are  ravening  wolves,"  he  cast 
more  significant  glances  askance  at  them, 
and  both  Leland  and  Stanlev  felt  that  thev 
were  the  innocent  objects  of  a  preconized, 
malignant,  but  discreet  attack. 

Leland  Tannerhill  felt  a  great  weight 
pressing  down  upon  hi**?  The  past  had 


372  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

been  a  deep  black  void;  but  here  was  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel  in  a  brazen  attempt 
at  thwarting  the  purpose  of  the  Scriptures, 
twisting  the  words  of  the  Savior  to  fit  his 
studied  ends  and  for  the  evident  reason 
that  two  men  were  present  in  the  House  of 
God  who  differed  from  his  masters  on  sub- 
jects of  economic  policy.  It  looked  like  a 
great  sin  to  him,  and  with  his  mind's  eye, 
knowing  that  he  had  always  lived  a  clean 
honest  life,  he  looked  into  the  future  and  be- 
held for  him  but  a  vast  desolation.  He 
turned  silently  and  sadly  to  his  companion 
who  was  too  absorbed  in  what  was  being  said 
to  notice  him. 

"Ye  shall  know  them  by  their  fruits, " 
again  came  the  sneer.  This  time  there 
could  positively  be  no  mistake.  He  meant 
them,  that  was  certain.  He  told  the  spell- 
bound congregation  to  look  about  them  for 
the  fruits  of  the  evil  tree.  On  the  marvelous 
prosperity  of  the  country  he  expatiated 
with  great  elaboration.  He  called  their  at- 
tention to  our  wonderful  commercial  devel- 
opment, and  our  elastic  financial  system, 
and  the  victorious  strides  we  were  making 
with  our  glorious  army  and  navy  in  subju- 
gating and  converting  the  naked  and  un- 
armed natives  of  isolated  islands  in  the 
distant  seas. 

He  referred  to  the  Mexican  revolution, 
then  in  progress,  as  an  example  of  the  in- 
gratitude and  irresponsibility  of  the  masses 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  373 

when  given  too  much  liberty.  He  blamed 
the  Mexican  government  for  its  too  liberal 
policy  and  for  not  making  with  the  sword 
a  more  positive  demonstration  of  power 
and  authority  over  its  unworthy  subjects! 

After  making  it  perfectly  clear  that  the 
United  States  could  lick  anything  this  side 
of  Hell,  he  soared  oratorically  among  the 
asteroids  to  eulogize  our  divinely  appointed 
captains  of  industry.  They  were  the  real 
laboring  class,  he  told  them !  Without  these 
be  jeweled  libertines  to  sit,  cushioned  and 
pampered  at  the  top,  "the  lazy  vagabonds 
who  go  from  place  to  place  stirring  up  class 
hatred  and  preaching  revolution  would  all 
starve  to  death! — an  end  they  richly  de- 
served," he  fumed. 

Then  he  came  right  out  and  said  openly 
just  what  he  meant.  "Last  night,"  he  re- 
sumed heroically,  "the  germ  of  the  'red  pes- 
tilence' of  Socialism  was  inoculated  into 
our  peaceful  community.  It  was  trans- 
mitted from  its  dark  cave  by  one  of  its 
hobo  army  of  disgruntled  agitators  who  go 
about  sowing  the  tares  of  discontent  be- 
tween capital  and  labor." 

By  this  time  Leland  was  thoroughly 
aroused,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  his 
friend  restrained  him.  But  the  godly  gen- 
tleman of  the  cloth  valiantly  persevered  in 
his  exhaustive  re-Ab errant ation  of  all  that 
had  been  said  and  printed  in  Ashworth 
earlier  in  the  dav. 


374  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

A  fast  and  deflagrate  talker,  was  the 
Right  Rev.  Yancel  Lea.  O,  and  he  was 
going  good  now!  "Capital  and  Labor  are 
brothers,"  he  announced,  positively.  "Their 
interests  are  identical!"  he  declared  em- 
phatically, his  pig-squeal  voice  keyed  away 
up. 

'Cordin  ter  thet  I  must  be  a  twin  ter 
Het  Shepherd's  sawmill,  and  you're  no  less 
related  ter  thet  air  newfangled  milk 
skimmer  you  told  about, ' '  whispered  Leland 
to  his  companion.  But  Stanley  Lark 
heeded  him  not.  This  was  no  new  thing  to 
him,  but,  nevertheless,  it  was  a  rare  sermon 
and  he  could  afford  to  lose  none  of  its  fine 
significance.  But  when  the  ecclesiastic  fol- 
lower-in-His-steps  tiptoed  airily  to  the  apex 
of  his  mushy  verbiage  and  away  from  all 
semblance  to  things  Godly,  the  .Westerner 
yawned  audibly,  shook  his  head  with  dis- 
gust and  reached  for  his  Stetson. 

With  the  dedalian  dexterity  of  a  mephis- 
tophelian  prestidigitator  compounded  with 
the  genuflection  of  an  obeisant  fawn,  the 
Right  Rev.  Lea  coolly  aligned  God  with 
Wall  Street's  gang  of  blacklegs.  That  was 
the  limit  for  Leland.  He  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  He  had  calmly  listened  while  both 
he  and  his  new-found  friend,  together  with 
Socialism  and  all  the  Socialists,  were  being 
unmercifully  and  unrighteously  grilled, 
outraged  and  slandered ;  but  when  in  abuse 
of  his  exalted  station  he  culminated  in  the 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  375 

glorification  of  the  bloody  Shylocks  of 
Mammon,  placing  them  on  a  par  with  the 
Creator,  the  soul  of  him  revolted.  Even 
lie  could  turn  at  last— Leland  Tannerhill — 
the  man  who  had  never  struck  a  blow  and 
on  whose  tongue  no  spiteful  word  had  ever 
trespassed.  The  crisis  came  when,  in  the 
midst  of  a  deignous  incantation  the  re- 
spected minister  of  the  Gospel  declared  the 
Morgans,  Rockefellers,  Leopolds,  Gugen- 
himes,  et  al,  the  Chosen  Few  and  special 
appointees  of  God  Almighty.  The  Father 
so  loved  his  children,  who  were  too  corrupt 
and  sinful  to  be  trusted,  that  he  had  seen 
fit  to  intrust  the  property  interests  of  the 
country  to  a  few  wise  men!  These,  he  in- 
formed his  hearers,  were  to  be  the  well- 
nourished  custodians  of  the  nation's  wealth; 
sponsors  for  the  government;  shapers  of 
the  social  destiny,  and  political  representa- 
tives of  the  disinherited  working  classes! 

Leland  waited  for  no  more.  Jerking  his 
Comrade  to  his  feet  unceremoniously,  he 
halted  long  enough  to  free  his  volatile  mind 
and  to  feast  his  eyes  one  last  time  on  the 
scene,  ere  they  bolted  from  the  profaned 
sanctuary,  never  to  return. 

With  farewell  speculation,  he  calmly  sur- 
veyed the  old  place  of  worship  once  so  dear 
to  him.  There  was  the  new  pipe  organ,  the 
new  colored  window,  electric  lights  on  the 
old  chandelier  where  once  burned  tallow 
candles  of  his  mother's  own  dipping,  and 


376  THE    TORCH    OF   REASON. 

the  great  high-backed,  stuffed  chair.  All 
these  had  come  with  the  rich  summerers 
who  had  donated  them — conditionally  with 
the  stipulation  that  they  select  and  pay  the 
preacher ! 

Far  up  above  the  altar  under  a  crown  of 
thorns  looked  down  the  compassionate  eyes 
of  the  Crucified  One  of  Calvary.  Leland 
beamed  upon  the  benign  visage  on  the  can- 
vas with  sinking  heart.  The  sorrowful  eyes 
seemed  more  sorrowful  than  when  his  poor 
sister  now  sleeping  out  in  the  old  church- 
yard had  painted  and  hung  it  there.  The 
picture  was  a  present  from  Erma  to  the 
little  church  she  loved,  on  the  event  of  its 
fiftieth  anniversary.  How  often,  O,  how 
often  had  he  sat  before  it  and  read  this 
commandment  of  good  will  emblazoned  in 
crimson  letters  there: 

"LOVE  YE  ONE  ANOTHER." 

He  was  reading  it  once  again,  this  for  the 
last  time! 

Turning  now  resolutely  to  the  Cyprian 
functionary,  the  Tannerhill  hermit,  both 
voice  and  frame  shaking  with  the  righteous 
indignation  of  inburning  protest,  bitterly 
exclaimed:  "I  ain't  minded  fer  to  disturb 
no  religious  service;  but  this  'ere  gatherin' 
's  nothin'  but  a  convention  o'  shop  keepers 
and  hypocrites.  It  may  be  thet  God  Al- 
mighty's sold  out  to  the  trusts,  mortgaged 
Heaven  and  gone  into  politics;  but  it'll  take 
more'n  your  tootin'  ter  make  me  believe 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  377 

it,  yer  pizen  coward.  Where  honest  folks 
used  ter  come  fer  to  offer  thanksgivin'  to 
the  Heavenly  Father,  you've  been  polished 
up  and  shipped  in  all  wound  and  sot  like 
an  alarm  clock,  ter  go  off  with  yer  lyin' 
tongue,  a  blasphemin'  God  and  bargainin' 
the  souls  of  his  children  ter  the  Devil.  Out 
o'  God's  temple  you've  made  an  auction 
block  fer  ter  supply  grist  ter  whoremongers 
and  thieves.  It  ain't  no  longer  a  House  o' 
God,  but  a  hell-hole  o'  Satan.  I've  been 
comin'  here  fer  ter  bless  my  Maker  in  my 
simple  way  fer  more'n  forty  year,  half  on't 
alone.  But  I've  got  my  belly  full.  You 
can  take  yer  gold  plated  religion  and  go- 
to— Hell!  I'm  agoin'  home,  and  I  ain't 
acomin'  back! 

"I  tell  ye,  Texas,  the  church  is  agin  us," 
he  lamented  to  his  companion  as  they 
stalked  forth  together  into  the  moonlit 
night. 

"The  church  is  against  us,  Comrade,  but 
the  people  don't  know  it,"  was  the  melan- 
choly rejoinder. 

"It  usen't  to  be  so,  years  ago  as  I  remem- 
ber; but  it  seems  like  everything  purty 
much  is  altered  now,  and  the  rich  'pears 
ter  be  the  whole  show."  Stopping  suddenly 
as  if  a  new  idea  had  occurred  to  him,  he 
laid  a  still  trembling  hand  on  his  friend's 
arm  and  meditated  half  inquiringly  aloud: 
"I  wonder  how  thet  air  sanctimonious 
skunk  got  wind  o'  last  night's  doin's?  He 


378  THE   TORCH  OP  REASON. 

never  goes  to  Ashworth  on  a  Sunday 
mornin',  and  they  hain't  been  a  team  pass 
or  some  on  us  would  a  seen  it." 

"Phone,"  was  the  other's  laconic  reply. 
"  Every  preacher  now  days  has  a  telephone. 
It's  a  part  of  the  paraphernalia  of  their 
capitalistic  churchianity.  Somebody  inter- 
ested in  perpetuating  the  existing  social 
order  called  him  up  and  put  him  next. 
There'll  be  more  to  it,  or  I'm  a  stray  mav- 
erick in  a  salten  sink." 

As  they  stepped  from  the  maple  orchard 
at  the  corner  of  the  house  and  rounded  the 
old  wellcurb,  Leland  paused,  removed  his 
hat  and  turned  a  last  look  in  the  direction 
of  the  scene  just  left  behind.  Then  he 
heaved  a  long,  deep  sigh!  " Good-bye,"  he 
said  at  length,  " good-bye!" 

Stanley  went  straight  to  the  well,  drew 
up  a  spilling  bucket  of  ice-cold  water  a 
hundred  feet  from  under  ground  for  the 
waterpail  on  the  sinkboard,  while  Leland 
was  lighting  the  kitchen  lamp. 

Their  eyes  fell  upon  it  both  at  the  same 
time.  There  it  lay,  face  up  on  the  kitchen 
table — The  Aberrant!  How  did  it  get 
there,  and  why?  It  was  Sunday,  and  no 
mail  was  ever  delivered  on  the  Sabbath. 
Furthermore,  the  thing  was  a  weekly,  is- 
sued on  Thursday.  But  this  was  an 
"EXTRA!"  dated  Sunday— that  very  day! 

This  it  was,  more  than  the  non-arrival  of 
his  old  chum  from  Alaska  that  had  done 


"You  may  take  your  gold-plated  religion  and  go — to — Hell! 
I'm    a'goin'    home    and    I    ain't    a'comin'    back!" 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  379 

it.  It  was  all  clear  to  him  now.  No  longer 
was  he  at  variance  with  the  policy  of  Jason 
Sands — the  fighter.  Jason  was  right;  it 
was  a  living  fight  and  a  fight  to  live.  There 
were  opposing  forces  in  Society.  The  lines 
were  clearly  drawn  and  one  had  to  choose. 
It  was  an  unwelcome  awakening,  but  it  was 
an  awakening  that  had  to  come.  The  sad- 
dest part  of  it  was  in  that  it  had  come  too 
late. 

Opening  the  little  black  Bible  after  the 
Aberrant  had  been  read  through  by  both 
of  them,  he  came,  strangely  enough,  upon 
these  words:  "He  who  is  not  for  me  is 
against  me." 

From  that  day  on  the  decline  of  him  had 
been  rapid  and  sure. 

Leland  Tannerhall  was  no  fighter.  On 
the  contrary,  his  was  a  love  nature.  He 
saw,  or  tried  to  see,  only  the  good  in  men. 
He  preferred  to  think  well  of  those  who 
reviled  him.  But  he  had  stood  up  under 
too  great  a  burden — all  too  long. 

That  night  Stanley  Lark  was  awakened 
by  the  ravings  of  a  madman.  Before  re- 
tiring, he  had  played  and  sung  to  him,  and 
now  the  music  was  in  his  ears  again,  and 
he  thought  it  was  his  dead  sister  Erma. 
"Sing  me  'THE  HOME  OF  THE  SOUL/ 
Twink."  (Twinkle,  a  pet  name  he  used  to 
call  her  by  when  they  played  and  sang  to- 
gether before  the  organ  came.)  "Play  it 
soft-like  so's  not  ter  drown  the  singinV' 


380  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

he  called  from  the  bedroom,  and  Stanley 
understood. 

First  it  was  the  singing,  then  it  was  over 
to  Jason's;  down  in  the  meadow;  at  the 
old  watering-trough,  or  playing  hide-and- 
seek  as  on  rainy  days  they  had  played  in 
the  haymows  and  up  on  the  great  beams  in 
the  old  barn.  It  was  surprising  with  what 
rapidity  his  mind  would  wander,  as  he  lived 
over  the  whole  vista  of  their  vanished  child- 
hood, in  the  springtime  of  a  barren  life, 
romping  among  the  flowers  and  the  new- 
mown  hay,  or  coasting  on  their  double- 
runner  under  the  moonlight  on  the  glare 
crust  in  winter.  There  would  be  days  and 
nights  of  it.  Then  he  would  return  to 
himself  as  sane  and  as  sound — apparently— 
as  ever.  But  Stanley  could  see  that  he  was 
going,  and  he  regretted  that  he  could  not 
stay  with  him  all  the  way  through.  But 
there  was  Ignorance — vast  and  monumen- 
tal Ignorance— to  combat,  in  the  battle  of 
Reason  against  Wrong,  and  he  had  to  be 
up  and  doing. 

With  the  first  re-appearance  of  delirium, 
Stanley  threw  the  harness  on  to  Black 
Raven  and  struck  for  a  doctor.  He  urged 
that  splendid  animal  over  the  road  to  Ash- 
worth  as  no  man  had  ever  driven  him  be- 
fore. The  handsome  beast  seemed  to  know, 
and  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  quest  with 
a  speed  to  shame  the  urging.  Driving 
straight  to  the  Holiness  Tavern,  he  depu- 


THE    TORCH    OF   REASON.  381 

tized  Rec  Cotton  and  together  they  went 
the  rounds  for  help ;  but  not  a  doctor  in  the 
village  would  promise,  right  out,  to  go! 
They  drew  back  from  the  sweet-mannered 
Socialist,  wide-eyed,  and  in  evident  terror! 
The  pulpit  and  the  press  had  done  their 
work! 

But  Rec  Cotton  would  go,  and  he  would 
continue  to  go  twice  a  week,  and  Jennie 
Drew  would  go  along  and  help  as  best  she 
could.  In  this  way  the  stock  would  be  cared 
for  and  the  poor  man  made  comfortable, 
and  when  the  end  should  come  there  would 
be  willing  hands  to  minister  to  his  last 

needs. 

****** 

It  was  the  24th  of  December,  the  night 
before  Christmas.  The  three  day's  bliz- 
zard that  had  blocked  all  traffic  and  frozen 
the  whole  rural  community  indoors  was 
subsiding,  though  the  cold  was  still  intense. 
The  palsied  hand  was  silent,  now,  and  the 
soft  blue  eyes  that  once  beamed  warmly 
with  honesty  and  full  of  kindness  were 
deep-sunken  in  dark  sockets  under  the 
white  forehead. 

In  the  window,  the  smoky  little  lamp  had 
burned  out,  and  the  tracks  of  rodents  were 
more  numerous  in  the  thinly  sifted  snow 
on  the  bedroom  floor. 

Slowly  and  painfully  a  ghost-like  form 
raised  upright  and  sat,  like  one  risen  from 
the  dead,  among  the  patchwork  quilts. 


382  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Then  the  form  arose  and  tottered  across 
the  snow-carpeted  room  to  the  window, 
scraped  a  peek-hole  through  the  frost  with 
a  thick  thumb-nail  and  peered  out  across 
the  white  mantled  fields;  but  there  was  no 
light  in  the  little  church  over  on  the  bleak 
hillside,  nor  was  there  a  sign  of  life  in 
all  the  world  as  far  as  he  could  see.  Over 
him  came  creeping  a  terrible  loneliness — a 
loneliness  that  was  akin  to  the  grave. 

With  one  hand  against  the  wall  for  sup- 
port, the  other  hanging  heavily  at  his  side, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  kitchen,  refilled  and 
lighted  the  little  lamp,  looked  at  the  clock 
and  into  his  Levitt's  almanac  and  re- 
entered  the  bedroom.  Yes,  it  was  Christ- 
inas Eve.  Soon  the  little  meeting-house 
would  be  aglow  with  many  candles,  and  out 
through  the  frosty  night  would  peal  forth 
the  Christmas  carols,  ringing  out  the  glad 
tidings  in  joyous  memory  of  Him  who  died 
for  men.  But  he  would  not  be  there!  He 
had  never  been  absent  from  the  annual 
Christmas  festival  in  all  his  life.  This 
was  his  first  miss.  Alas,  it  was  destined  not 
to  be  the  only  one! 

Once  more  he  hobbled  to  the  window,  all 
unmindful  of  the  cold  and  of  the  snow  upon 
which  his  bare  feet  fell  without  causing 
him  any  pain.  They  were  frozen  solid  to 
the  ankles  and  thumped  upon  the  worn 
floor  boards  like  muffled  stones.  In  his 
legs  below  the  knees  there  was  no  feeling, 


THE   TORCH    OF   REASON.  383 

and  over  him  was  slowly  falling  a  blissful 
drowsiness,  mingled  with  the  numb  warmth 
which  comes  surely  with  the  freezing  of 
the  blood. 

The  bells  were  ringing  now,  and  through 
the  narrow  windows  of  the  little  house  of 
worship  that  long  he  had  loved  so  well 
streamed  the  many-colored  glow  of  the  fes- 
tive illuminations.  He  listened  for  the 
sleigh-bells  as  he  had  listened  for  them  so 
often,  and  watched  wistfully  down  the 
drifted  road  for  the  lanterns  to  flit  past, 
as  he  had  seen  them  flitting  past  when 
Christmas  bells  were  happy  harbingers  of 
love  and  joy  to  him.  But  the  sleigh-bells 
never  came.  The  lanterns  never  passed. 
But  the  drowsiness  persisted,  in  spite  of  the 
unmistakable  evidence  that  he  had  slept  a 
long  time. 

His  mind  was  clearer  now,  and  he  looked 
at  his  white  left  hand  and  at  his  whiter 
lifeless  feet,  and  he  knew  that  he  was 
freezing ! 

Back  to  its  place  in  the  window  he  car- 
ried and  carefully  sat  the  smoky  little  lamp, 
looked  out  a  last  time  at  the  lights  on  the 
hillside,  and  with  trembling  voice  feebly 
soliloquized:  "It  may  be  thet  the  Lamb  o' 
God  is  allus  with  them  thet  worship  him. 
But  he  ain't  over  there,  neither  be  I.  But 
Erm,  you  be  over  there!  O  Erm,  darlin' 
Erm!  And  I'll  be  there  soon,  too,  dear 


384  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

little  Twinkle,  for  I  guess  my  waitin'  is 
'bout  over  and  my  time  has  come." 

Turning  in  the  dim,  uncertain  light  until 
he  faced  her  picture  over  the  organ,  long 
he  gazed  upon  it  with  unspeakable  venera- 
tion and  longing.  Next  he  opened  the  old 
plush-covered  album  and  turning  to  the 
double  picture  of  his  sister  and  her  lover, 
he  invoked  the  blessing  of  God  on  them 
both  and  climbed  back  into  bed,  just  as 
Rec  Cotton  and  Jennie  Drew  pushed  open 
the  oaken  doom  and  burst  into  the  cold 
kitchen.  They  had  been  snowed  in  the 
night  before  at  Little  Squam  Bridge,  and 
had  just  gotten  through. 

Like  Trojans  they  worked  over  their  de- 
mented frost-bitten  Comrade,  and  finally 
with  the  old  house  heated  from  the  four 
fireplaces,  the  frost  drawn  and  his  feet 
and  left  hand  treated  with  as  much 
knowledge  and  care  as  they  possessed  and 
could  give,  they  took  turns  on  watch,  sit- 
ting up  with  him  until  daylight,  when  they 
left  for  fresh  supplies  over  a  trackless  road 
eight  miles  back  to  Ashworth. 

Leland  Tannerhill  had  suffered  pain  be- 
fore; but  with  the  feeling  slowly  working 
back  into  the  thawed  feet  and  hand,  noth- 
ing like  description  of  the  excruciating 
agony  of  this  was  mortally  possible.  Swol- 
len to  thrice  their  normal  size,  and  with 
the  thawed  blood  scalding  like  hot  water, 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  385 

his  feet  felt  like  they  were  burning  in  boots 
run  full  of  molten  lead,  and  his  hand  might 
well  have  been  in  a  red-hot  vise. 

Why  could  not  the  morbid  hallucinations 
return!  How  much  could  flesh  and  blood 
endure  ?  If  only  the  snow  had  been  deeper ! 
Why  could  they  not  have  left  him  yet  a 
little  longer? 

"Them  pins  ain't  never  goin'  ter  come 
'round  right,  thet's  sartin,"  he  declared 
positively  to  himself  after  his  friends  had 
gone.  And  when  at  eventide  he  lay  and 
watched  the  red  sun  slip  down  coldly  be- 
hind Plymouth  Mountain,  he  knew  it  was 
setting,  for  him,  for  the  last  time. 

" December  the  twenty-fifth,"  he  said 
aloud,  when  the  last  of  the  red  rim  had  all 
but  disappeared  and  the  long,  slate-colored 
shadows  from  the  nude  trees  began  falling 
dismally  athwart  the  rime  meadow.  "Nigh 
two  thousand  years  ago  ter-day  you  come 
ter  bring  peace,  and  they  driv  spikes 
through  your  feet  and  hands  and  gi'n  ye 
gall  ter  drink;  and  if  ye  was  ter  come  ter- 
day  they  wouldn't  nail  ye  ter  the  cross — 
they'd  print  suthin'  agin  ye  in  their  lyin' 
yaller  press,  and  the  p'lice  would  run  ye 
in,"  he  avowed  bitterly,  his  gaze  fixed  on 
the  Hallowed  Child  in  a  frame  above  the 
mantel.  It  was  another  of  Erma's  paint- 
ings wrought  when  she  was  in  her  early 
teens.  Sitting  upright  as  best  he  could  in 


386  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

his  extremity,  he  continued,  the  passion  of 
his  rended  soul  firing  him  into  one  last 
mighty  travail.  "Ye  come  to  'em  with 
love  and  peace  in  yer  heart  and  they  mur- 
dered ye. ' '  He  was  on  his  swollen  feet  now 
and  looking  out  over  the  valley  where  a 
certain  head-stone  stood  stark  and  white 
amid  the  whiter  snows.  He  began  again, 
running  back  over  the  years  and  finally 
breaking  out  woefully:  " Christmas  day, 
nineteen  hunder'd  and  ten!  Jist  twenty 
year  ago  to-day,  Erm,  since  we  laid  you 
ter  rest  yender,  and  now  I'm  comin'  too!" 
Turning  again  to  the  picture  of  Jesus 
Christ,  he  fell  on  his  swollen  knees  before 
it  and  cried  out  in  a  wild,  unnatural  voice 
where  the  waning  sunset  fell  in  golden  flood 
upon  the  floor:  "Lord,  Lord!  Hear  me  jist 
this  once.  I  know  it's  an  awful  sin,  and  I 
guess  you'll  have  hard  work  ter  fergive  me 
fer  what  I'm  goin'  ter  do;  but  I'm  goin' 
ter  do  it  if  ye  send  me  ter  Hell,  fer  I've 
stood  it  as  long  as  I  can  and  the  wust  can't 
be  harder 'n  this  'ere  I'm  sufferin'.  Mebbe 
I  hain't  been  good  ernough  fer  ter  enter  in 
where  you  be,  and  if  I  hain't  then  I 
won't  complain;  but  I  want  to  go 
where  Erm  is,  fer  I've  come  ter  realize  thet 
most  probably  Jase  is  gone  too,  and  if 
thet's  so,  then  they  be  together,  where  ever 
they  may  be.  I  ain't  af eared  of  the  Judg- 
ment, fer  I've  done  the  best  I  knowed.  I 
ask  it  now  fer  Jesus'  sake.  Amen." 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  387 

With  this  the  last  of  the  Tannerhills 
arose,  lighted  the  smoky  little  lamp  in  the 
window,  hobbled  laboriously  to  the  old 
clock  in  the  kitchen,  opened  the  door  in  the 
bottom  and  drew  forth  the  rawhide  thong! 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE    SURRENDER    OF    THE    FROST    KlNG. 

Aflame,  how  coldly,  through  the  artic  night, 

Her  merry  dancers  flirting  with  Jack  Frost, 
Queen  Borealis  flashes  up  her  light — 

A  silent  Lorealei  to  farer  lost 
Amid  the  snows!    And  'decked  with  crystal  gem 

Like  fairy  sovereign  on  her  Polar  Throne, 
Sans  royal  court  or  royal  diadem. 

But  'neath  the  North  Star's  purple  all  alone, 
The  fallen  farer  cries,  and  cries  in  vain! 

Wake,  Genius !  Ho !  far  through  the  brumal  chill 
Thy  brother  calls!  Bid  him  arise  again — 

A  triumph  to  thy  re-awakened  will. 

Six  men,  patient  but  expectant,  peered 
through  the  mammoth  glass  cylinder,  but 
no  man  spoke.  The  cylinder  was  ten  feet 
in  length  by  five  feet  in  diameter,  to  which 
was  attached  four  small  hose-like  tubes. 
The  six  men  were  Quimby  Sands,  Jason 
Sands,  Dr.  Spanto,  Jack  Philips  and  two 
of  the  Agitator's  chief  Physic  Scientists. 
Inside  the  glass  cylinder  lay  a  projectile- 
shaped  block  of  ice,  inside  of  which  again 
was  frozen  as  clear  as  moss-agate,  the  fur- 
clad  body  of  a  man.  The  man  frozen  inside 
the  block  of  ice  lying  inside  the  glass  cylin- 
der was  the  unfortunate  prospector,  Ben 
Page. 

It  was  while  on  his  way  to  No.  5  Carry 
with  the  packages  for  Leland  Tannerhill, 

(388) 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  389 

that  Ben  had  run  afoul  of  wolves — the 
remnant  of  the  same  pack  that  had  es- 
corted Jason  Sands  to  his  cliff  bed  only  a 
few  nights  before. 

No.  5  Carry  was  a  new  government  post 
on  the  Drinkwater  River,  where  the  mail 
sledges  crossed  the  divide  between  Nome 
and  Gold  City,  a  mere  twenty  miles 
from  the  Broken  Bone.  The  wolves 
were  unusually  bad,  having  suffered  two 
crushing  defeats  without  tasting  the 
sweet  flesh  of  man,  and  Ben  was  obliged 
to  take  to  the  higher  ground  above 
the  timber  line  to  evade  them.  Here 
he  encountered  a  fierce  blizzard  in  which 
he  lost  his  way  and  froze  to  death 
in  the  blinding  snow.  An  Indian  dog 
musher  from  the  Carry,  out  for  rabbits, 
found  and  brought  in  his  pack,  sent  the 
packages  on  their  way  through  the  pass, 
and  made  a  diligent  but  fruitless  search 
for  the  owner.  Four  years  later  a  party  of 
Canadian  government  surveyors  came 
upon  the  body,  frozen  fast  in  a  glacier,  ten 
thousand  feet  below  the  scene  of  its  death, 
whither  an  avalanche  had  swept  it. 

It  was  the  first  thing  the  Comet  with  her 
all-piercing  eye  had  discovered— these  Ca- 
nadian government  surveyors  in  the  act  of 
melting  out  that  frozen  body  from  the  gla- 
cier by  means  of  heaping  dry  wood  on  a 
fire  made  against  the  river  of  ice. 


390  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

With  a  thin  ray  of  charged  light,  the 
Comet  sawed  out  the  block  of  ice  contain- 
ing the  body,  hoisted  it  aboard,  and  in 
twenty  minutes  it  was  resting  inside  the 
glass  experimental  cylinder  on  the  Agi- 
tator. 

With  the  correct  adjustment  of  tempera- 
ture, tune,  air  and  light  from  the  four 
tubes  and  the  exterior,  the  glass  cylinder 
suspended  inside  its  cushioned  chamber,  the 
body  was  to  be  left  in  its  frozen  state  until 
they  should  return  to  St.  Louis,  or  such 
time  as  their  entire  attention  could  be 
given  to  its  resurrection.  For  it  were  a 
ticklish  undertaking,  this  experimenting 
with  the  dead,  and  there  must  be  no  haste 
and  no  mistake.  The  young  wizard  had 
always  wanted  to  try  it,  and  now  here  was 
the  supreme  test  of  man's  mastery  over 
the  elements :  to  bring  back  a  life  from  the 
infallible  decree  of  the  Frost  King. 

And  why  not? 

The  good  priest  at  the  Carry  had  come 
out  to  say  the  last  rites,  the  grave  had  been 
dug,  and  all  was  in  readiness  for  the  ever- 
lasting burial  of  one  whom  Orthodoxy  pro- 
claimed was  hopelessly  a  dead  man. 

"Not  so  fast,"  challenged  the  new 
Science.  "Here  we  have  a  healthy,  per- 
fect animal  mechanism,  rendered  tempo- 
rarily inoperative  through  too  close  con- 
tact with  the  peculiar  chemistry  of  cold. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  391 

Every  cell  in  this  man's  body  retains  its 
every  faculty.  There  is  not  a  broken 
wheel  or  a  clogged  gear  in  the  entire  hu- 
man machine.  Nothing  has  taken  place 
within  it,  nor  without  it,  but  a  suspension 
of  animation  as  a  result  of  the  perfectly 
natural  crystallization,  under  unnatural  en- 
vironmental conditions,  of  the  electro- 
chemical circulation  which  supplies  that 
warmth  necessary  to  its  functional  activity. 
This  is  what  you  with  your  conventional— 
criminal  ignorance — are  pleased  to  term 
death.  For  thousand  of  years  you  have 
been  proclaiming  death  to  all  mankind,  at 
the  same  time  damning  souls  of  the  dead 
to  Hell,  or  praying  them  to  Heaven,  ac- 
cording to  certain  specifications  and  price. 
There  is  nothing  dead  in  the  Universe." 
Thus  spake  the  inventor  of  the  new  fire 
crafts,  while  the  befurred  and  bewiskered 
miners,  awe-stricken,  stared  at  him  stand- 
ing in  his  white  linen  uniform  just  where 
a  cornucopia  of  soft  light  from  the  Comet 
hedged  his  little  party  about. 

The  good  priest  wrathfully  objected  to 
the  removal  of  the  body,  claiming  that  it 
were  desecration  of  God's  holy  will  to  thus 
defile  these  mortal  bones  from  which  the 
soul  was  departed  now  four  long  years. 
"It  is  not  given  to  us  of  inferior  dust  to 
raise  the  dead  in  this  generation,"  he  for- 
bade, "and  you  shall  not  profane  the  law 


392  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

by  practicing  your  modern  hocus-pocus  on 
the  silent  remains  of  this  beloved  child  of 
God." 

Having  in  advance  received  his  fee  in 
generous  measure  from  the  yellow  dust  of 
the  miners  and  surveyors,  he  demanded  his 
priestly  prerogative  of  purgatorial  soul- 
herd,  and  proceeded  to  administer  the  last 
rites  forthwith  and  unopposed.  Then  a 
miner's  meeting  hurriedly  convened,  the 
decision  of  which  was  to  the  effect  that  the 
body  should  go  with  Jason  Sands.  Where- 
upon, and  without  further  ado  the  tackle 
was  fastened  in  the  ice  block,  the  body  and 
crew  hauled  aboard  and  the  power  trimmed 
for  speed. 

As  the  Agitator  headed  for  the  North 
Pole,  Jason  told  a  story  of  a  live  frog 
blasted  out  of  a  block  of  granite.  The 
strange  phenomenon  appeared  strikingly 
analogous  to  his  son's  remarkable  theory 
concerning  bodies  rendered  rigid  and  inac- 
tive as  a  result  of  sudden  freezing. 

"I  was  working  in  a  quarry  at  Concord, 
N.  H.,  back  in  the  '80s,  when  the  thing 
happened,"  he  began.  "Sammie  Brodie  was 
holding  drill  for  me,  for  we  took  turn  and 
turn  about  striking.  He  called  my  attention 
to  it  as  the  rock  parted,  or  I  surely  never 
would  have  believed  it  other  than  some  of 
his  Irish  trickery.  In  the  slab  split  off  there 
was  a  small  hollow  space  the  size  and  shape 
of  half  an  egg,  and  as  smooth  as  a  wolf's 


THE   TORCH    OF   REASON.  393 

fang.  In  the  other  side  crouched  a  white 
frog,  all  hunched  up  and  blinking  in  the 
sunlight.  Sam  crossed  himself,  got  off 
something  about  'the  holy  mither  uv  Moses' 
and  lit  out  for  the  lift." 

"  Perfectly  legitimate  evidence  of  the 
theory  of  conditional,  geological  mutation," 
interrupted  his  son.  "It  is  proof  positive 
that  this  planet  was  not  made  as  it  now  is, 
but  that  there  have  developed  decided 
changes  in  its  structural  architecture. 
Otherwise  the  granite  might  have  been  in 
the  frog  instead  of  the  frog  in  the  granite. 
Surely  the  earth  was  not  made  from  frogs," 
he  asserted  buoyantly. 

"Violates  the  'six  days  shalt  thou  labor' 
injunction,"  vouchsafed  Jack  Philips  ten- 
tatively. 

"Only  in  so  far  as  intellectual  compre- 
hension extends, ' '  the  other  qualified.  Then 
by  way  of  explanation:  "Science  possesses 
knowledge,  and  all  knowledge  is,  always  has 
been,  and  always  will  be  in  contempt  of 
judgment.  To  the  scientist,  every  day  in  the 
week  is  but  another  day.  To  the  'believers/ 
there  is  what  is  said  to  be  a  'Holy  Sabbath.' 
Formerly,  and  before  the  advent  of  the  task- 
master, men  labored  when  they  pleased, 
rested  when  they  pleased  and  played  when 
they  pleased.  The  Sabbath  Day,  so-called, 
is  the  invention  of  man  and  followed  the  in- 
vention of  clothing — as  a  natural  sequence. 
It  was  a  health  measure.  Something  had  to 


394  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

be  done  to  make  the  hitherto  naked  tribes 
change  their  clothes,  which  they  were  prone 
to  wear  night  and  day  alike  once  they  had 
gotten  them  firmly  fixed  upon  themselves. 
Of  course  the  masters  had  them  to  sell,  that's 
why  the  slaves  had  to  have  them  to  wear.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  Capitalism.  It  came 
along  with  religion.  At  that  time  there  was 
no  need  of  clothing,  for  there  was  room 
enough  on  the  earth  within  the  equatral  zone 
for  all  mankind — which  would  still  be  true 
were  it  not  for  the  sad  fact  that  the  race 
had  been  dehumanized  and  dispossessed. 

"When  the  masters  saw  that  their  slaves 
could  not  be  induced  to  disrobe  at  night, 
they  invented  the  i  Day  of  Rest. '  As  things 
were,  the  slaves  would  not  change  clothes 
for  divers  reasons:  First,  herded  together 
as  they  were,  there  was  no  surety  of  one  get- 
ting his  same  outfit  in  the  morning;  sec- 
ondly, they  had  not  enough  ambition  left 
after  a  day's  drudgery  on  the  soil,  and  for 
the  chief  reason  that  they  were  covered  with 
sores  caused  by  the  unaccustomed  contact 
of  the  coarse  clothing  and  the  driver's  lash. 

"Now  about  that  time  it  was  ordained 
that  not  only  should  the  Holy  Sabbath  be  a 
day  of  rest  and  worship,  but  also  it  must 
be  a  day  of  cleanliness  and  clothes  chang- 
ing !  So  the  slaves  had  to  have  another  suit 
of  clothes — two  suits,  if  you  please!  Of 
course  this  put  them  further  in  debt  to  their 
masters,  but  they  didn't  catch  on.  It  was  a 


TTIE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  395 

new  canon  of  sanitation,  made  mandatory, 
any  violation  of  which  was  punishable  with 
death.  Thus  Society  got  to  take  a  bath,  the 
very  thing  it  most  needed. " 

From  this  the  discussion  led  off  through 
all  the  vast  multitude  of  theories  and  myth- 
ologies, from  before  Adam  to  star  dust, 
finally  winding  up  where  it  began,  with  the 
frozen  man  and  the  hundred-thousand-year- 
old  frog. 

It  was  all  in  the  books,  he  told  them.  But 
the  experiment  he  was  about  to  try  was  not 
in  the  books,  though  it  was  destined  to  be. 
If  a  frog  can  be  hibernated  in  his  bed  of 
mud  that  had  crystallized  into  a  solid  gran- 
ite mountain  and  kept  alive  a  hundred  thou- 
sand years  from  such  Eocene  epoch,  and  if  a 
frozen  fish  could  be  thawed  out  and  re- 
turned to  its  former  state  of  health  and  ac- 
tivity after  having  been  frozen  all  winter 
in  an  iceberg,  why  in  the  name  of  human 
reason  should  it  seem  illogical  to  hope  for  a 
chance  for  Ben  Page  ? 

*While  standing  with  tolerant  acquies- 
cence by  the  open  grave  they  had  dug  for  the 
frozen  miner,  the  thought  struck  him :  why 
not  manufacture  human  food  from  earth? 
There  it  was,  just  earth,  mixed  through  with 
charcoal  from  their  fires.  Trees,  plants, 
vegetables — even  the  grasses  knew  enough 
to  make  their  food  supply  from  earth,  why 
not  man?  Man  was  of  chemical  construc- 
tion the  same  as  the  plant  life.  So  was  the 
earth. 


396  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Here  was  the  nucleus  for  a  new  invention 
—the  greatest  of  all  those  yet  brought  out. 
It  would  revolutionize  the  world  of  in- 
dustry. It  would  be  a  sixty  per  cent,  saver 
in  human  labor. 

Making  human  food  from  earth !  He  ran 
over  the  sentence  in  his  mind,  then  slipped  a 
hand  inside  his  linen  coat;  and  when  the 
Comet  left  with  Ben  Page  in  the  ice  block, 
she  also  had  on  board  a  hundred  pounds  of 
the  clean  earth  melted  out  of  the  frozen 
river  bank. 

At  the  North  Pole  they  learned  that  no 
man  had  ever  been  there  before.  Also  they 
discovered  the  age-long  secret  of  the  Aurora 
Borealis.  No  man  could  have  journeyed  to 
the  "big  nail"  before,  because  it  must  have 
been  absolutely  inaccessible  to  man  with  any 
other  means  of  transportation  less  adequate 
than  either  the  Agitator  or  the  Comet. 

Standing  like  a  paper  cone,  miles  in  cir- 
cumference and  miles  in  heighth  directly 
over  the  center  of  the  magnetic  axis,  was  a 
mountainous  peak  of  perpetual  ice  and 
snow.  Of  course,  no  sun  ever  reached  the 
base  of  this  tower  of  frost,  consequently 
there  was  falling  upon  it  a  never-ending 
storm  of  snow.  Here  was  a  point,  where, 
save  for  the  Aurora  Borealis,  Night,  never- 
ending,  somber  Night,  held  her  silent,  un- 
disputed sway. 

Into  and  through  and  beyond  the  pole 
burned  the  great  fire-ship,  then  back  again 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  397 

and  into  the  ice-packed  Arctic  Ocean. 
There  was  nothing  mysterious— not  even 
interesting — in  the  trip  through  the  Polar 
Cone,  more  than  the  noise  of  cracking, 
bursting  and  falling  ice,  and  the  wonderful 
color  effects  produced  by  the  power  ray  in 
contact  with  the  ice  and  snow  as  it  was 
fused  into  gas  and  consumed.  That  day- 
light could  never  reach  the  region  was  no 
enigma  to  one  understanding  the  correlative 
positions  of  the  earth  and  sun  in  their  re- 
spective life  cycles,  each  around  the  other. 
The  said-to-be  magnetic  attraction  as 
demonstrated  in  the  " magnetic"  needle,  was 
no  other  force  than  that  of  cold  and  heat. 
Also  it  was  this  same  force  of  temperature 
which  accounted  for  the  attraction  of  gravi- 
tation that  kept  the  earth  suspended  in 
space.  Heat,  the  expellant  force,  pushing 
the  heavy  end  of  the  needle  farthest  away, 
with  the  expellation  of  the  heat-expanded 
ether,  while  Cold,  the  attractive  force, 
gathering  the  heat-dried  vapors  to  its  cen- 
tral and  coldest  point,  this  was  the  secret  of 
"magnetic"  attraction,  gravitation  and 
solar  cycle  phenomena.  There  was  neither 
magnetism  nor  magnetic  force  situated  at 
the  poles.  Of  course,  owing  to  its  compara- 
tive close  proximity  to  the  earth,  none  of 
the  heat-condensing  rays  from  the  focal 
center  of  the  solar  body  were  possible  of 
effectively  generating  warmth  at  either  of 
the  Polar  extremities.  But  there  were 


398  THE   TORCH   OF  REASON. 

sources  of  light  other  than  the  sun  in  this 
icen  wonder  world.  Volcanoes  of  all  sizes 
and  in  all  stages  of  eruption  and  recru- 
descence spasmodically  burst  forth  from  the 
very  depths  of  the  frozen  ocean,  almost 
momentarily,  and  as  spasmodically  subsided 
and  disappeared.  The  Pillar  was  sent  up 
and  of  what  it  saw  there  could  be  no  mis- 
take. Mountains,  red  hot,  pushed  up 
through  ice  a  hundred  feet  thick,  burst, 
srmrted  their  white-hot  vomit  miles  into 
the  frost-laden  ether  amid  sounds  unthink- 
able, and  with  indescribable  auroral  beauty. 
Volcanoes  were  not  actually  the  Aurora 
Borealis;  but  they  contributed  a  power  of 
parhelian  magnificence  thereto,  forming 
what  might  be  said,  somewhat  paradoxi- 
cally, to  be  a  sort  of  extraneous  adjunct  to 
the  major  phenomena.  With  a  huge  cone 
of  ever-falling  snowr  crystals  sifting  over 
the  frozen  end  of  earth  for  a  radius  of  a 
hundred  miles,  hanging1  far  over  all  like  a 
cloud  of  diamond  dust  shot  through  with 
the  far  distant  rays  of  the  cold  red  sun, 
this  was  the  Aurora  Borealis.  But  this 
was  not  all.  What  of  the  volcanoes  with 
their  clouds  of  earth  ashes  resetting,  zenith- 
poised,  in  a  rainbow-like  semi-circle  inter- 
mingled, multi-hued  and  gorgeous,  with  the 
crvstalline  veil  of  brumal  midnight 
splendor!  With  the  red  rays  of  the  unseen 
sun  from  the  other  side  of  the  globe  mirag- 
ing  his  crimson-purple  coronet  against  this 


THE   TORCH   OF  REASON.  399 

gauzy  fluff  of  ashes  and  frost,  and  with  the 
constantly  moving  vapors  wafting  these 
hanging  gardens  of  hoar  lace  fitfully  like 
breakers  on  an  ocean  swell,  it  seemed  that 
all  the  rainbows  from  eons  pristine  to  yawn- 
ing futurity  were  regimented  into  one 
vast  victorious  amalgamation  of  celestial 
effulgence. 

As  the  Agitator  emerged  from  her  self- 
melted  tunnel  in  the  ice  cone,  the  Comet 
came  forth,  loaded  and  primed  with  her 
night  cameras  for  motion  pictures  of  the 
beautiful  Northern  Lights.  It  was  just  in 
time  to  catch  a  new  eruption  right  in  their 
wake  and  less  than  a  hundred  fathoms  dis- 
tant. This  was  followed  by  another  and 
another,  until,  like  an  Indian  headdress,  a 
circle  of  active  volcanoes  completely  en- 
circling the  boreal  center,  spurted  up 
smoke,  ashes  and  glowing  lava  like  a 
myriad-tongued  serpent  hissing  his  red- 
mouthed  warning  at  the  dancing  arch  of 
blue-mantled  glory. 

As  the  eruptions  continued  and  the 
tongues  of  vivid  flame  licked  up  the  black 
night,  belching,  spitting  and  gushing  lava, 
cinders,  smoke  and  fire  against  the  canopy 
of  indescribable  coloring  that  reached  from 
horizon  to  horizon,  nothing  like  an  ade- 
quate description  of  it,  nor  of  the  sensation 
it  effected  on  the  mind,  is  even  mildly  pos- 
sible. There  were  all  the  known  colors,  and 
colors  unknown.  And  such  blending  of 


400  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

hues!  With  the  volcanic  heat  was  gen- 
erated a  fierce  wind.  This  wind  had  the 
effect  of  moving,  drifting  and  mingling 
smoke,  ashes,  snow  and  the  ever-crystalliz- 
ing vapors  into  millions  of  unimaginable 
shapes,  positions  and  density,  until  the  eyes 
tired  and  the  senses  staggered  under  strain 
of  all  its  wondrous  grandeur.  There  was 
no  moment  when  all  the  colors  were  not 
partially  visible ;  but  they  were  ever-variat- 
ing,  deepening,  fading  and  changing  places, 
as  if  the  whole  vast  expanse  of  astral  in- 
finity were  peopled  with  countless  throngs 
of  toe-dancing  fairies,  garbed  in  velvety 
butterfly  chromatics  of  changeable  flowing 
silk.  Let  one  imagine  all  this  bristling 
through  with  countless  billions  of  dazzling 
prisms  of  streaming,  trembling  light!  Let 
one  imagine  all  this,  then  double  his  imagi- 
nation, multiply  it  by  a  million,  and  he  will 
get  but  a  faint  idea  of  an  Aurora  Borealis 
as  seen  from  the  magnetic  axis  under  the 
North  Star. 

But  there  were  other  fish  to  fry. 

It  was  in  December,  1914. 

They  had  been  around  the  world;  they 
had  opened  the  sealed  vault  of  the  North 
Pole;  they  had  Ben  Page  on  board,  frozen 
up  in  ice,  and  they  were  bound  for  St. 
Louis,  the  journey's  end. 

They  knew  that  the  Mexican  Revolution 
had  failed.  True,  the  marionette,  Diaz,  had 
been  operated  to  resign  by  his  Wall  Street 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  401 

manipulators,  and  allowed  to  escape  out  of 
the  country  he  had  for  thirty  years 
drenched  in  innocent  blood.  And  he  had 
been  allowed  to  take  with  him  the  golden 
millions  crystallized  from  the  heart  pained 
blood  of  his  gasping  slaves.  But  Capital- 
ism had  remained.  Which  went  to  show 
that  the  Socialist  Revolution  as  projected 
by  the  heroic  handful  of  unconquerable 
martyrs  had  been  anticipated  and  had 
failed.  It  had  failed,  not  because  it  lacked 
either  in  numbers  or  capital,  arms,  or 
righteousness  of  cause.  It  had  failed  for 
the  good  and  sufficient  reason  that  it  was 
aimed  at  the  Beast  and  was  led  by  such 
god-men  as  Ricardo  Flores  Magon,  L. 
Gutterez  de  Lara,  Liberado  Rivera,  An- 
tonio I.  Villarreal  and  their  American  sym- 
pathizers— all  revolutionary  Socialists. 
Added  to  which  reasons  was  the  fact  that 
the  political  grafters  of  the  Great  United 
States  of  America,  true  to  their  traditions, 
transported  her  armed  m3rrmidons  to  the 
land  of  sunshine  and  tears  to  thwart  them, 
and  to  aid  their  gambler-masters  in  per- 
petuating tyranny. 

Counter  to  the  real  revolution,  they  had 
fostered,  aided  and  abetted  a  false  revolu- 
tion to  deceive  the  patriots  and  thwart  the 
purpose  of  the  real  movement  of  emancipa- 
tion. This  fake  revolution  was  led  by 
traitors  to  the  common  people.  These 
leaders  were  in  favor  at  Wall  Street  and 


402  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Mexico  City,  and  so  Wall  Street  permitted, 
temporarily,  the  false  revolution  which 
simply  gave  the  people  a  change  of  masters, 
to  succeed. 

And  then  began  the  fiendish  crime  of  se- 
cretly and  publicly  murdering  the  real 
social  revolutionists  by  the  new  fake  Mexi- 
can government.  Wherever  found  on  Mexi- 
can soil,  these  true  patriots  were  lynched  and 
strung  up,  shot  to  death  or  otherwise  made 
away  with,  and  as  an  accessory  to  this  in- 
human practice  of  murdering  political  op- 
ponents as  was  also  practiced  by  the  demon, 
Diaz,  the  great  United  States  lent  her  police 
and  military  power.  No  man  was  free  to 
walk  the  streets,  nor  was  he  safe  in  his  own 
home.  Upon  any  trumped-up  charge,  men 
were  seized  and  torn  from  their  loved  ones, 
thrown  into  prison  without  process  of  law, 
held  indefinitely  without  trial  to  be  turned 
over  to  the  froth-f anged  human  hj^enas  who 
awaited  them  just  across  the  Mexican 
frontier. 

This  was  the  method  of  Russia.  Also  it 
was  the  method  of  Spain  and  the  rest  of  the 
barbaric  Autocracies.  Thus  it  was  that 
thousands  of  martyrs  were  brutally  mur- 
dered and  their  work  for  humanity  re- 
tarded, discredited  or  destroyed. 

At  Nome  they  learned  that  there  was 
trouble  brewing  by  these  same  political 
fakers,  who,  at  the  behest  of  their  economic 
masters,  had  succeeded  in  fermenting  more 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  403 

trouble  in  Mexico  that  the  country  might 
safely  be  annexed  to  the  United  States— 
a  criminal  capitalistic  conspiracy  just  re- 
cently consummated.  Also  they  learned  at 
Nome,  that  the  great  capitalistic  United 
States-by-the-grace-of -its-billion-dollar  own- 
ers, was  at  very  serious  loggerheads 
with  rapidly  organizing  labor.  Putting 
himself  in  communication  with  the  Red 
Cadets  by  means  of  the  Af/itator's  wireless 
system,  Quimby  Sands  learned  that  the 
United  States  was  in  a  terrible  turmoil  of 
retrogressive  political  confusion.  Engaged 
in  this  gentle  pastime  of  vote-catching  voo- 
dooism,  were  the  "Gold  Standard"  Demo- 
crats, the  " Cross  of  Silver"  Democrats,  the 
"dry"  Democrats,  the  "wet"  Democrats 
and  the  "Africo-Jeffersonian"  Democrats. 
Then  there  came  the  Republicans:  The 
"Dinnerpail  Foolers,"  The  "Stand-pat- 
ters," the  "Insurgents"  and  the  "High 
tariff ers,"  and  the  "God  Knows  me  toos" 
—all  Republicans  and  all  "wets." 

Opposing  these  came  the  good  but  mis- 
guided Prohibitionists,  the  ancient  and 
moss-covered  Populists,  the  "Indepen- 
dents," the  fake  "Labor  Unionist"  Party, 
and  what  was  said  to  be  the  "Suffragettes'* 
— whatever  that  may  mean.  One  thing  it 
did  not  mean,  however,  it  did  not  mean  the 
great,  grand  American  Woman's  Suffrage 
Movement,  composed  of  the  very  virtue  of 
motherhood  and  sisterhood  of  the  useful 


404  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

home-loving  women  of  the  land.  For  these 
women  were  doing  an  heroic  and  splendid 
work.  Awakened  and  aroused  at  last,  they 
were  proving  that  they  could  organize, 
finance  and  conduct  political  movements 
without  either  the  aid  of  a  besodden  mas- 
culinity or  the  pampered  mistress  of  a 
labor-hating  Belmont. 

Following  all  of  which  persisted  the 
Single-taxers,  with  their  slogan  of  "Back- 
to-the-Land"  (naked  and  empty-handed!). 

It  was  a  sorrowful  jumble  of  conflicting 
economic  interests,  finding  expression  on 
the  political  field.  Each  particular  group 
acting  individually  and  purely  in  self-in- 
terest, or  what  it  imagined  was  self-interest, 
it  was  a  woeful  spectacle  of  muddle-brained 
fanatacism  annually  paraded  in  the  face 
of  a  more  muddle-brained  Society  as  a 
civilized  example  of  "  personal  political 
liberty!"  Of  course,  the  chief  " pickings" 
occurred  only  once  in  four  years;  but  the 
results  were  far-reaching,  never-ending, 
and  constantly  growing  worse. 

*At  Victoria,  Seattle,  Portland  and  San 
Francisco  they  were  furnished  with  more 
information  concerning  existing  conditions, 
and  that  the  country  was  rapidly  approach- 
ing a  mighty  crisis  there  could  be  no  gain- 
saying. 

Within  this  seething  caldron  of  contem- 
poraneous cross-purposes,  where  battled 
blindly  the  misled  factions  of  a  society  gone 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  405 

mad,  germinated  the  inevitable.  Other 
countries  had  passed  through  it,  but  the 
United  States — the  Great  United  States— 
had  been  the  last.  Another  champion  had 
entered  the  political  arena.  It  was  the 
mighty  International  Socialist  Party.  At 
last  it  had  come  and  was  making  itself  felt 
and  heard.  The  Eed  Cadets  it  was  that  had 
hastened  the  day.  As  a  result  of  their  clas- 
sified literature  crusade  came  the  Industrial 
Co-operative  Democrats. 

Prior  to  this  there  were  many  Socialistic 
parties,  and  many  factions  of  each  of  these. 
But  the  Great  Cause — the  Great  Life 
Philosophy— the  one  great  World  Socialist 
Movement  had  come  and  remained,  firmly 
rooted  in  the  rapidly  developing  and  in- 
evitably decadent  capitalist  system. 

There  had  been  many  Socialistic  parties 
but  only  one  Socialist  movement.  Many 
interpretations  had  been  proclaimed,  but 
there  was  but  one  Socialist  philosophy.  It 
had  been  the  same  through  all  history — an 
idea  accepted  but  misunderstood. 

For  a  long  time  these  several  Socialistic 
parties  had  wastefully  fought  each  other, 
and  all  the  hundreds  of  factions  had  fought 
each  other,  while  the  real  enemy — Capital- 
ism— looked  on  and  grinned.  This  was  be- 
cause Socialism  was  of  the  working  class 
which  had  never  been  taught  anything  but 
toil — toil,  and  falsehood,  and  competition 
and  optimistic  political  acquiescence.  With 


406  THE    TORCH    OF   REASON. 

the  awakening  of  the  outraged  conscience 
had  followed  spasmodic  rebellious  resist- 
ance to  everything  savoring  of  individual 
usurpation,  generating  more  momentum 
with  each  explosion  until  anger  and  jeal- 
ousy were  aroused,  often  winding  up  their 
local  meetings  in  a  chaos  of  misunderstand- 
ing, intolerant  personal  abuse,  and  reac- 
tionary internal  divisions.  Meanwhile,  on 
marched  the  enemy,  the  one  enemy,  the 
only  possible  enemy— Capitalism. 

Imagine  ten  million  Socialists,  all  pos- 
sessing the  franchise,  all  understanding  the 
correct  interpretation  of  the  Socialist 
philosophy,  and  for  twelve  years  only  cast- 
ing approximately,  at  the  presidential  elec- 
tions, a  measly  500,000  votes!  And  this 
because  of  the  sad  fact  that  a  few  soldiers 
in  this  vast  army  of  peace,  going  out  to 
conquer  the  world  with  the  armament  of 
love,  secretly  carried  the  poisoned  poinard 
of  Jealousy  for  the  heart  of  some  possibly 
over-zealous  but  none  the  less  sincere  com- 
rade. But  all  this  was  changed  now.  With 
the  fierce  and  bloody  war  of  Mexican  an- 
nexation had  come  the  solidarity  of  union 
and  non-union  labor.  Quimby  Sands  had 
written  a  pamphlet  courageously  telling 
them  to  their  faces  of  their  faults,  and  they 
profited  by  the  frank  castigation.  It  was 
a  mirror,  so  to  speak,  held  up  before  them 
and  they  looked  into  it  boldly;  for  there 
were  neither  cowards  nor  traitors  among 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  407 

these  early  social  rebels,  save  for  a  high- 
handed element  which,  if  it  could  not  rule 
by  fair  means,  was  bound  to  ruin  by  foul. 
These  were  the  self-assertive  egotists  who 
had  caused  the  temporary  disruptions, 
which  had  resulted  in  driving  the  majority 
of  the  active  workers  away  from  the  meet- 
ings and  in  many  cases  out  of  the  party, 
until  the  Socialist  Party  of  that  period  had 
become  too  small  and  hide-bound  for  the 
Socialist  movement. 

It  was  this  sort  of  thing  that  had  so  long 
held  down  Socialist  progress  in  the  United 
States.  The  most  trustified  and  therefore 
the  fiercest  reign  of  capitalistic  tyranny 
of  any  nation  on  earth,  it  very  logically 
follows  that  it  should  have  been  the  first 
government  to  fall  under  the  Socialist 
flag.  Therefore,  it  was  the  boasted  op- 
timism of  numberless  exponents  of  the  neAV 
political  economy,  that  such  was  bound  to 
be  the  case. 

Alas  for  the  optimism  of  the  cock-sure 
dogmatist ! 

Logic  was  one  thing,  but  the  practical 
application  of  a  correct  social  philosophy 
under  adverse  circumstances  was  quite 
another.  It  was  not  at  all  hard  to  see  that, 
with  the  superior  equipment  in  modern  ma- 
chinery of  wealth  production,  America  was 
leading  the  world  in  the  production  of  the 
necessities  of  life.  Nor  was  it  hard  to  see 
that  with  the  absolute  monopolization  of 


408  THE   TORCH    OF   REASON. 

all  this  machinery  of  wealth  production 
together  with  all  the  means  of  shipment, 
travel,  communication  and  raw  supply,  in- 
cluding the  very  land  itself,  the  wealth  of 
the  nation  was  rapidly  concentrating  in  the 
hands  of  few,  and  fewer,  until,  it  would 
seem,  with  the  complete  dispossession  of 
the  workers,  a  crisis  must  be  reached  when 
the  people  would  have  to  turn  to  Socialism 
or  perish  of  starvation.  Also,  and  as  the 
cock-sure  dogmatist  would  proclaim,  it 
would  seem  no  more  that  good  horse  reason- 
ing to  assume  that  workers  so  dispossessed, 
owned,  body  and  soul  and  surely  starving, 
would  seize  upon  Socialism  as  a  drowning 
man  catches  a  straw.  But  they  had  reck- 
oned without  their  host! 

They  had  not  considered  the  fact  that 
Capitalism,  at  that  time,  reigned  through- 
out the  world.  They  had  omitted  giving 
any  attention  to  the  Dick  Military  Law. 
They  forgot  that  the  Supreme  Court  and 
Federal  Judiciary  was  the  law  of  the  land. 
That  the  Catholic  church  maintained  a 
standing  army  of  3,000,000  men,  armed  to 
the  teeth  and  that  every  Catholic  church 
was  an  armory  and  an  arsenal,  boded  no 
menace  as  far  as  these  "  every thing-is-all- 
right"  comrades  could  see.  That  Capital- 
ism was  an  international  organization  of 
money  changers  whose  interests  were  iden- 
tical, and  who  would  collaborate  at  last  to 
crush  their  rebellious  slaves,  were  material 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  409 

only  for  the  jokesmiths.  Oh,  they  were  ex- 
perts on  the  political  chessboard,  were  these 
big,  love-hearted  comrades;  but  they  forgot 
that  the  ballot  was  an  instrument  only  lent 
the  workers  for  the  purpose  of  making  their 
slavery  appear  like  liberty,  and  for  the  ad- 
ditional purpose  of  voting  their  masters 
into  power.  That  it  could  be  withdrawn 
or  suspended  at  any  time  through  a  procla- 
mation of  martial  law  had  never  occurred 
to  them.  Adding  still  to  their  amiss  judg- 
ment (unmerciful  to  say  though  it  may 
seem)  was  their  jocular  indifference  con- 
cerning the  international  matrimony 
market  for  the  traffic  in  royal  titles. 

The  early  Socialist-optimist  could  sense 
no  physical  opposition  to  Socialism  in  the 
pomegamic  unions  of  American  heiresses 
with  the  leperous  pimps  of  monarch- 
ridden  Europe.  But  to  the  latter  school 
the  inter-marrying  of  domestic  and  for- 
eign parasites  carried  with  it  a  most  menac- 
ing significance.  True,  the  other  countries 
had  fallen  into  the  Socialist  lap;  but 
only  after  the  workers  had  organized 
themselves  into  one  vast  and  complete 
union,  and  then  only  at  the  last  minute. 
That  they  had  organized  in  time  to  abort 
the  diabolical  plots  of  the  rulers  to  whole- 
sale them  to  death  by  the  soldiery,  was  not 
the  fault  of  the  masters.  Capital  was 
capital,  and  they  were  the  capitalists.  Who 
could  expect  them  to  want  their  voluptuous 


410  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

sons  and  daughters  to  be  reckoned  citizens 
under  the  Co-operative  Commonwealth? 
Why !  They  might  have  to  go  to  work !  To 
think  of  it! — Work!  They  give  up  power 
and  idleness  for  Work? — Never! 

Cruel  as  it  may  seem,  yet  it  would  not 
be  fair  to  omit  just  one  more  wrong  point 
in  the  methods  of  reasoning  indulged  in  by 
these  good  comrades  of  the  chaotic  and 
obsolete  past.  They  gave  the  orthodox 
voter  of  the  working  classes  credit  for  hav- 
ing intelligence!  They  appealed  to  their 
heads  instead  of  to  their  stomachs.  Their 
stomachs  were  intelligent,  knowing  and 
distinguishing  the  gnawing  pangs  of 
hunger  from  the  siren  songs  of  the  "  pros- 
perity" vaudeville  artists;  but  the  brain  of 
an  American  voting  sovereign  of  that  time 
was  so  thoroughly  imbued  with  patriotic 
fervor  that  he  couldn't  tell  the  difference 
between  a  judge-made  labor  injunction  and 
a  side  of  trust-made  beef. 

But  with  the  coming  of  the  Red  Cadets 
came  classified  literature ;  with  classified 
literature  came  Industrial  Unionism — the 
unionism  that  unified — the  Industrial  Co- 
operative Democrats.  With  the  perfection 
of  this  mighty  one  union,  into  which  was 
swept  every  individual,  male  and  female 
who  worked  for  -wages  in  the  nation,  fol- 
lowed the  consolidation  of  all  liberal  and 
reform  doctrinarians,  as  they  came  into 
the  great  International  Socialist  Party, 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  411 

one  by  one,  leaving  behind  their  petty 
fidgetings,  foolish  jealousies  and  childish 
fears.  In  other  countries,  whose  cults, 
sects,  creeds,  factions  and  budding  politi- 
cal bodies  had  been  admitted  boldly  and 
bodily;  but  that  had  been  tried  with  dis- 
astrous results  here,  and  so  only  the  indi- 
vidual method  of  absorption  by  way  of  the 
open  door  came  to  prevail,  and  with  better 
results. 

The  early  struggles  of  the  American  So- 
cialist movement  had  been  fraught  with 
many  harrying  discouragements.  There 
had  been  as  many  brands  of  Socialist 
preachment  as  there  were  theories  concern- 
ing the  hereafter.  A  Socialist  was  a  So- 
cialist up  to  the  point  where  it  seemed  to 
conflict  with  some  inherited  or  dyed-in-the- 
wool  belief  or  superstition,  and  there  his 
wires  crossed.  Also,  there  were  many  "  So- 
cialist" parties  and  near-parties  in  the 
early  days,  which  grew  from  the  So- 
cialist seed  and  thrived,  or  sprouted 
and  withered  according  to  their  scientific 
or  unscientific  fundamentals.  The  seed  of 
Socialism  fell  upon  many  qualities  of  men- 
tal soil.  Some  barren  of  reasoning,  some 
stony  with  ignorance,  and  some  poisonous 
with  the  stagnant  slime  of  jealousy  and  un- 
yielding prejudice. 

Among  some  of  the  names  of  the  various 
Socialist  parties,  and  names  by  which  they 
were  slanderously  called,  were:  The  S.  L. 


412  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

Ps.,  the  Christian  Socialists,  the  Utopians, 
"Impossiblists,"  the  "  Palliators, "  the 
" Compromisers,"  the  Revolutionists,  the 
"  Step-at-a-timers, "  the  Colonizers,  the 
Fabians,  the  " Intellectuals,"  the  Fusion- 
ists,  the  "Proletarians,"  the  " Parlor  So- 
cialists," the  International  Socialist  Party, 
and  the  "Some-things  Socialist."  This 
latter  curiosity  being  attracted  because  of 
an  abiding  hope  that  Socialism  was  bound 
to  become  suddenly  very  popular,  when  it 
would  offer  him  an  excellent  shelter  from 
the  wet.  He  wanted  all  the  Socialists 
wanted  and  more.  He  wanted  Socialism 
for  what  there  was  in  it;  but  he  wanted 
Capitalism  also,  for  the  reason  that  he 
feared  Socialism  would  give  him  an  honest 
job  of  work  and  cut  off  his  little  private 
graft. 

Surely  they  were  a  generous  array  of 
rebellious  comrades.  Each  possessed  of 
many  erroneous  and  conflicting  abstract 
opinions,  but  all  agreed  upon  one  point, 
the  one  point — the  great  vital  point:  the 
fundamental  declaration  that,  "whereas, 
Labor  creates  all  wealth,  Labor  shall  pos- 
sess the  full  value  of  its  created  product." 

And  so,  up  out  of  all  the  tumultuous, 
blind,  but  ever-evolving  yeast  of  history, 
emerged  over  the  industrial  horizon  the  sun 
haloed  head  of  the  modern  progress-god— 
Organized,  Educated,  Co-operative  Labor. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  413 

But  it  was  tardy  in  the  coining.  The 
Giant  had  slept  too  long !  Wall  Street  with 
its  Pinkertons  in  the  labor  councils  and  its 
marionettes  in  Washington,  had  the  situa- 
tion in  hand — or  thought  it  had.  But  with 
the  annexation  of  Mexico  had  come  a  sharp, 
short  but  terrible  war  with  Japan  in  which 
the  United  States  had  suffered  an  unmerci- 
ful but  richly  deserved  thrashing,  and  was 
left  humiliated,  bankrupt  and  without  a 
navy. 

America  had  fermented  it  primarily  for 
commercial  exploitation;  but  it  served  two 
other  purposes  as  well.  It  helped  to  dis- 
tract the  attention  of  its  voting  sovereigns 
from  the  capitalisic  misrule  of  the  masters 
and  from  Socialist  activity  at  home. 

The  masters  believed  more  in  slogans, 
red  fire,  flags  and  rum,  than  they  did  in 
progress.  They  had  an  old  saw  to  the  effect 
that,  "one  should  never  swap  horses  while 
crossing  a  stream."  This  had  been  paraded 
before  the  ox-eyed  herd  for  fifty  years,  and 
was  always  resurrected  just  prior  to  each 
Presidential  election,  for  the  effect  it  was 
supposed  to  have  in  keeping  the  dominant 
party  perpetually  in  power.  It  was  re- 
markable the  way  they  overworked  these 
slogans,  rags,  rum  and  fireworks.  But  that 
the  " stunt"  really  worked,  was  no  less  re- 
markable! And  these  ring-nosed  cattle — 
these  mild-mannered  voting,  " free-born" 
drifting  slaves  were  said  to  be  "men"! 


414  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

" Issues,"  this  was  the  watchword  of  the 
masters,  and  issues  they  invented  and 
pulled  off  with  remarkable  regularity  and 
precision  whenever  the  green  pastures  were 
outfed  and  the  mild-eyed  herd  were  idle 
and  starving.  Such  a  condition  was  said 
to  be  a  period  of  "over-production" !  These 
periodical  overstockings  of  markets  with 
the  wealth  created  by  the  mild-eyed  heard 
were  always  sources  of  great  mystery  to  the 
voting  cattle.  Whenever  their  hands  were 
idle  and  their  stomachs  empty,  it  was  a 
marvelous  coincidence  that  the  storehouses 
were  always  filled  to  the  bursting  point; 
and  the  phenomenon  continued  an  unsolved 
enigma,  that  the  working  citizenry  of  a  na- 
tion should  starve  amid  rotting  abundance 
for  the  crime  of  having  with  their  own 
hands  created  too  much  wealth ! 

"Hard  times,"  would  go  up  the  blatant 
plaint  from  the  sand  dunes  of  the  Herd, 
and  straightway  out  on  the  Stage  of 
"Isses"  would  troop  the  whole  puppet 
show,  including  President,  Senators,  Chief, 
"Justices"  and  all  the  rest  of  the  hum- 
bugs and  chief  humbugs,  and  then  the  play 
would  begin: 

THE  POLITICAL  MONTE-BANK 

PLAY: 
Act  I. 

Scene— Execution  Mansion. 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  415 

Enter  President  Taffy  (on  a  raft).  Picks 
up  queer-shaped  skull  labeled  "LABOR," 
shakes  his  head  sadly  (and  incidentally  his 
300-pound  paunch)  and  drawls,  sleepily: 
"Poor  Yorick!  He  knew  me  (hie)  well!" 

(Voice  from  audience:) 

"I  say,  Bill,  when  there's  a  drouth  and 
feed's  short  in  the  pasture,  what's  a  poor 
mule  to  do?" 

(Thunder  machine,  amid  great  confusion 
behind  the  scenes.) 

Pres.  Taffy:  "God  knows!" 
Exit  Pres.  Taffy. 

Act  II. 

Scene— Supreme  Court. 

Enter  nine  puppets  in  white  wigs  and 
long  black  gowns. 

Door  opens  and  straw  octopus  enters  la- 
beled "STANDARD  GREASE." 

Chief  in- justice  Might,  arising:  "Gentle- 
men of  the  Supreme  Court,  pay  heed  to  my 
rant.  We  shall  now  proceed  to  bust  the 
trusts"  (presses  spring  on  small  Jack-in- 
the-Box  cabinet  labeled  T.  R.,  cover  flies 
off,  blank  cartridges  explode  and  red  fire 
ignites,  as  out  of  the  box  pops  the  "  Big- 
Stick,"  swatting  the  straw  octopus  in  the 
bustle,  knocking  it  into  the  proverbial 
cocked  hat) . 

Protracted  cheers  and  laughter ! 

Curtain. 


416  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

(Audience  retires  in  order,  and  re-enter- 
ing pasture,  proceeds  to  grub  peacefully 
away  at  the  tawny  stubble  praying  the 
while  for  rain.) 

At  his  reception  in  San  Francisco  the 
young  wizard  announced  two  wonderful 
new  discoveries;  food  from  the  earth,  and 
the  process  of  goldmaking. 

The  scientist  showed  them  tablets  made 
from  chemicals  extracted  from  the  sack 
of  Alaskan  earth  and  announced  that  the 
stomach  in  its  present  form  as  a  necessary 
organ  of  the  human  body  was  destined 
eventually  to  disappear.  It  was  developed, 
he  said,  as  a  result  of  the  heavy  loads 
thrown  into  the  esophagus,  and  would  sub- 
side gradually  and  permanently,  when  the 
cause  was  removed  and  food  supplied  in 
direct  and  pre-digested  form.  What  was 
the  use  of  eating  a  pound  of  waste  to  get 
an  ounce  of  nutrition?  Why  expand  the 
stomach  to  balloon  proportions  with  a 
thimble-full  of  real  food1?  With  two  quarts 
of  pure  water  and  an  ounce  of  the  concen- 
trated earth-food,  an  athlete  could  subsist 
in  perfect  health  and  strength  for  twenty- 
four  hours. 

He  told  them  what  every  school  boy  and 
girl  knew  where  Socialism  was  known,  and 
what  any  physiology  could  prove:  that  the 
human  body  was,  in  the  main,  pure  water. 
Then  he  proceeded  to  name  the  different 
chemicals  of  which  the  human  organism 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  417 

was  composed,  and  unmercifully  scolded 
them  for  their  criminal  ignorance  of  the 
one  vital  science*— the  study  of  Self.  Flesh 
life  was  of  the  same  stuff  as  plant  life, 
and  the  elements  of  all  were  to  be  found  in 
a  handful  of  mud.  Why  not  replace  the 
worn-out  tissues  direct  from  the  source  of 
supply,  instead  of  taking  a  life  to  get  an 
inferior  article  at  third  hand.  ? 

"If  the  captain  of  a  ship  discovers  a 
mast  worn  out,  or  in  decay,  does  he  proceed 
to  fill  up  the  step  with  dirt,  plant  a  spruce 
tree  seed  there  and  then  sit  down  to  wait 
for  the  tree  to  grow  into  a  mast?"  he  in- 
quired jestingly.  Then  he  proceeded  se- 
riously with  the  answer.  "No,  not  he.  The 
source  of  supply  is  visited,  a  tree  cut  from 
the  forest,  the  waste  cut  away  and  the  mast 
shaped  and  stepped  after  the  manner  of 
men  who  know  what  is  wanted  and  how  to 
obtain  it.  But  when  the  human  ship  wears 
and  is  consumed  at  a  given  point,  its  cap- 
tain proceeds  to  scratch  the  earth  among 
the  very  substances  his  organism  needs; 
plants  some  seeds,  cultivates  a  crop  of 
weeds,  grass,  corn  and  mangelwurzels,  raises 
a  bull  until  he's  four  years  old  on  the  crops 
he  raised  from  the  seed,  then  he  kills  the 
bull  like  a  coward  and  a  murderer  and 
ignorantly  eats  him  like  a  wild  cannibal!" 

Here  he  gave  them  the  list  of  ingredients 
of  the  body,  and  told  his  hearers  that  any 
chemist  could  prepare  enough  food  for  a 


418  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

thousand  men  a  year  from  ten  square  feet 
of  earth,  and  still  have  the  earth.  Here 
was  the  list :  carbon,  hydrogen,  oxygen,  sul- 
phur, phosphorus,  chlorine,  flourine,  silicon, 
sodium,  potassium,  lithium,  calcium,  mag- 
nesium, iron  and  manganese.  Traces  of 
other  metals  and  minerals  there  were,  but 
the  most  important  among  the  organic  mat- 
ter were  the  carbon  dioxides,  common  salt, 
and  water.  These  men  walked  over ;  starved 
for  want  of,  and  mingled  their  bones  among 
because  of  their  criminal  ignorance  of  life. 
"The  time  will  surely  come  when  a  man 
may  live  a  thousand  years;  but  before  that 
time  comes,  man  will  have  studied  and 
learned  some  of  the  simple  fundamentals 
concerning  the  science  of  organic  life,"  he 
told  them. 

"The  city  of  San  Francisco  is  built  upon 
the  crust  of  a  vast  gas  bubble."  he  warned 
them.  "The  centre  of  this  earth  is  frozen 
as  hard  as  the  hardest  diamond;  but  near 
the  surface  are  numberless  subterranean 
lakes  and  rivers  and  caves.  Also,  there  are 
combustible  fuels  in  great  quantities  and 
profusion  buried  just  below  the  surface 
under  the  ephemeral  stucco,  where  they  are 
constantly  undergoing  changes  in  obedience 
to  the  Great  Law." 

Volcanoes,  he  informed  his  hearers,  were 
the  result  of  bursting  gas  bubbles  thrown 
up  above  large  deposits  of  these  spontane- 
ouslv  combusted  fuel  mines.  All  moun- 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  419 

tains  were  the  result  of  such  combustion, 
except  the  long  range  formations,  which  re- 
sulted mainly  from  glacial  activity,  and 
under  such  as  these  was  stored  the  fuel 
which  caused  all  the  siesmic  disturbances. 
There  were  the  Sierras;  they  rested  over 
lakes  and  rivers  of  oil,  beds  of  coal  and 
bubbles  of  gas.  "There  is  a  salt-water  sink 
a  thousand  feet  deep  right  under  this  city," 
he  said,  "and  into  it  constantly  plays  the 
harbor  tides  from  the  green  Pacific.  Occa- 
sionally there  falls  from  the  concave  roof 
of  this  earth-bubble  a  few  million  tons  of 
washed  down  crust,  and  there  is  said  to 
have  occurred  an  earthquake!  No  one  ever 
investigates  to  see  what  caused  the  shakeup, 
and  the  soothsayers  call  it  'an  act  of  Provi- 
dence!' Such  things  have  never  been  un- 
derstood, scientifically,  and  so  they  were 
feared  and  claimed  by  superstition. 

"In  1906  this  vicinity  was  severely 
shaken  by  the  collapse  of  one  of  these  un- 
derground caverns,  and  the  prophets  and 
seers  announced  it  a  punishment  from  the 
Divine  Court  for  the  sins  of  the  grafters 
(of  the  opposition  political  party!).  The 
city  of  San  Francisco  is  destined  to  sink 
out  of  sight  and  disappear  under  the  placid 
swell  of  the  Pacific  Ocean.  It  might  be 
saved,  even  now;  but  it  would  cost  money! 
It  isn't  worth  it.  It  is  too  rotten.  I  shall 
not  build  my  habitation  over  a  yawning 
abyss  of  certain  death." 


420  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

The  discovery  of  the  process  for  making 
gold  was  somewhat  of  an  accident.  Know- 
ing that  all  things  were  originally  of  gas, 
and  unto  gas  they  could  be  made  to  return, 
after  watching  the  volcanic  disturbances  at 
the  Pole,  he  contrived  a  miniature  volcano 
in  his  laboratory  on  the  Agitator,  but  his 
hope  of  success  was  small  indeed. 

Into  an  electric  crucible  he  had  thrown  a 
quantity  of  chemicals,  together  with  a  hand- 
ful of  common  salt,  a  lump  of  coal,  some  of 
the  earth  he  had  taken  from  the  river  bank, 
and  all  the  different  sweets,  acids,  carbons 
and  the  baser  metals,  and  added  enough 
sea  water  to  make  it  a  thick  mud.  Inside 
a  powerful  glass  vacuum  he  placed  th3 
crucible,  attached  the  wires,  drew  off  the 
air  and  turned  on  the  current.  In  thirty 
seconds  the  stuff  had  risen  from  a  smoking 
mass  of  fiery  incandescence  to  a  sputtering 
solar  orb  of  unearthly  heat  and  whiteness, 
viewable  only  through  colored  glasses.  The 
glass  vacuum  had  behaved  beautifully.  He 
had  wondered  how  long  it  would  hold. 
Would  it  hold  intact  to  the  end?  It  was 
a  breathless  moment!  For  ten  seconds 
Quiinby  Sands  was  one  of  many  on  the 
anxious  seat!  His  hand  gripped  the  screw 
of  a  valve,  and  when  of  a  sudden  the  whole 
sparkling,  sizzling  contents  foamed  up, 
burst  into  billions  of  jets  of  colored  light, 
he  waved  back  the  company  and  jerked 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  421 

open  the  valve.  The  stuff  the  valve  re- 
leased was  a  stream  of  liquified  air  re- 
duced to  a  temperature  so  cold  that  water 
frozen  by  it  turned  the  edge  of  a  steel 
drill. 

Of  course  there  was  an  explosion,  but  it 
had  been  anticipated  and  resulted  in  little 
harm  other  than  the  loss  of  glass,  and  that 
could  easily  be  replaced. 

It  was  the  cold  air  that  did  it,  just  as 
he  had  expected.  There  it  was,  a  small, 
irregular  lump  of  rock— the  fused  and  re- 
condensed  contents  of  the  crucible.  Ah! 
He  was  a  god !  for  had  he  not  created  earth  I 

Nervously  he  fell  upon  his  new  brain- 
child. It  was  not  hard  to  see  that  the  mass 
of  stone  was  streaked  with  metals;  but  it 
was  not  until  after  he  had  crushed  and 
separated  it  that  he  found  the  thing  to  be 
nearly  one-fourth  pure  yellow  gold. 

With  the  public  announcement  that  there 
was  a  man  living  who  knew  how  to  make 
gold  in  any  quantity,  and  for  a  few  cents 
a  ton,  the  press  got  busy  and  the  country 
went  wild.  What  of  the'"Gold  Standard,'' 
the  money  market,  the  gold  bonds,  the  na- 
tional debts,  payable  in  gold,  and  all  the 
hundred  and  one  other  dependencies  of  a 
restricted  and  highly  inflated  standard  of 
monetary  values?  But  Quimby  Sands  was 
interested  neither  in  mediums  of  exchange, 
debts,  credits  nor  riches.  His  was  a  mis- 
sion of  rescue — the  rescue  of  his  fellowmen 


422  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

from  the  heavy  yoke  of  that  very  yellow 
thing — gold.  He  would  take  it  up  with 
them  later.  At  present  there  was  some 
rapid  work  to  be  done. 

They  had  planned  to  run  down  the  coast 
past  Mexico,  Guatamala,  Honduras,  Nica- 
ragua and  Costa  Rica,  slip  through  the 
Panama  Canal  and  make  a  swift  run 
through  the  Caribbean  Sea,  the  Yucatan 
Channel  and  across  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  to 
New  Orleans.  The  trip  up  the  Mississippi 
to  St.  Louis  could  be  made  in  a  day,  and 
would  end  the  long  cruise. 

But  they  got  word  through  the  Red 
Cadets  that  there  was  a  capitalist  conspir- 
acy on  foot  to  trap  them  in  the  Grafter's 
Ditch,  and  for  no  good  purpose;  so  at  a 
suggestion  from  his  father,  young  Sands 
made  a  landing  at  San  Juan  Del  Sur,  Nic- 
aragua, got  in  communication  with  the 
government  at  Managu,  one  of  the  new 
Co-operative  Commonwealths,  and  in  just 
forty-eight  hours  perfected  a  commission  to 
dig  the  long  proposed  Nicaraguan  Canal 
from  Brito,  on  the  Pacific,  to  Lake  Nic- 
aragua, thence  to  Greyton,  in  the  Caribbean 
Sea,  some  one  hundred  miles. 

The  Agitator  indicated  the  course  from 
a  chart  furnished  by  the  government,  and 
the  Comet  did  the  work.  Word  had  been 
flashed  on  ahead  to  the  natives  to  retire 
from  the  zone  of  activity  when  the  finder 
ray  should  appear.  With  everything  in 


THE    TORCH    OF    REASON.  423 

readiness,  on  New  Year's  Eve,  up  shot  the 
radium  pillar  and  down  came  the  finder  in 
in  a  thin  fan-shaped  angle,  reaching  from 
coast  to  lake  and  lighting  the  way  for  the 
Comet.  And  then  the  fun  began. 

Going  up  a  half  mile  over  the  lighted 
course,  the  little  fire-fly  adjusted  the  focus, 
gave  the  signal,  and  turned  on  the  current! 

She  began  right  at  the  very  shore,  fusing 
ocean,  forest,  trees,  rock  and  earth  into  gas, 
and  at  the  same  time  igniting  and  consum- 
ing the  gas;  it  was  a  sight  describable  only 
by  future  minds.  Away  she  sped,  over  the 
course  and  back  again,  cutting  a  channel 
a  hundred  feet  wide  and  thirty  feet  below 
sea  level,  from  coast  to  lake,  and  in  less 
than  an  hour's  time.  Into  this  flowed  the 
sea,  and  in  another  hour  the  Agitator  had 
passed  through,  had  crossed  the  lake  ana 
the  performance  had  been  repeated  on  the 
other  side  through  to  the  Caribbean.  It  was 
a  costless  job,  soon  over,  and  it  put  the  au- 
cient  ditch  digging  methods  to  everlasting 
shame. 

Of  course  the  news  spread,  and  many 
receptions  were  planned  by  the  people 
along  the  route;  but  there  was  Ben  Page 
on  board  frozen  up  in  ice,  probably  rairc- 
trievably  dead— possibly  not.  They  were 
bound  for  St.  Louis,  and  they  were  in  a 
hurry. 

"Just  a  little  more  air  today,  and  raise 
the  temperature  half  a  degree,"  ordered 


424  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

the  wizard  prince.  Then  turning  to  the 
five  others,  continued:  "We  will  leave  him 
now  with  the  experts  and  the  captain.  To- 
morrow we  will  increase  the  temperature  a 
full  degree,  a  full  degree  each  day  there- 
after, doubling  the  dose  every  other  day, 
and  with  plenty  of  color,  tune  and  air,  in  a 
month  we  will  have  him  out  of  the  ice,  and 
in  two  months  he  will  walk  with  me  in 
Forest  Park." 

They  were  lying  now  at  the  foot  of  the 
west  pier  of  the  Eads  Bridge,  in  the  muddy 
old  Mississippi.  The  city  had  been  tipped 
off  and  the  levee  was  lined  with  300,000 
souls.  The  Red  Cadets,  50,000  strong,  mar- 
shalled Washington  Avenue  and  Delmar 
Boulevard  from  the  river  to  University 
City,  where  the  American  Woman's  League, 
the  first  great  Woman's  Democracy,  was  in 
convention  at  Delmar  G-arden. 

There  was  much  speaking,  President 
Lewis  leading  in  the  addresses  of  welcome. 
Also  there  was  much  cheering  by  100,000 
women  suffragists,  members  of  the  League. 
The  membership  of  this  league  were  not  all 
Socialists,  as  yet,  but  they  were  all  co- 
operators,  and  many  Red  Cadets  were  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  these  splendid  pro- 
gressive women.  They  would  all  become 
Socialists  in  time,  Quimby  Sands  knew 
that,  for  it  was  only  the  progressive  who 
had  ever  changed.  Jason  Sands  was  intro- 
duced amid  thunderous  applause,  and  that 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  425 

evening  the  Agitator  gave  her  usual  exhibi- 
tion with  the  pillar  and  the  ray,  and  the 
climax  was  capped  with  the  performance  of 
the  Comet  over  the  city. 

One  month  later  six  men,  the  same  six 
who  had  placed  him  in  the  ice  cabinet  while 
in  the  Arctic  Ocean,  gathered  anxiously 
around  a  glass  table  upon  which  rested  the 
nude  body  of  Ben  Page.  There  were  spec- 
tators present,  including  the  Dean  of  the 
Washington  University  Medical  College; 
Dean  of  the  St.  Louis  College  of  Physicians 
and  Surgeons ;  Editor  Brumby  of  the  Moon, 
and  the  good  priest  from  the  St.  Vitus 
Rock  Church. 

With  the  drawing  of  the  frost  was  ap- 
plied the  air-blast  massage  machines,  the 
high-power  electric  internal  bath,  the  ex- 
hileratory  respirator,  and  a  powerful  col- 
ored ray.  Stimulants  were  administered 
at  intervals  by  the  scientists  aboard,  and 
the  tune  machines  were  regulated  by  the 
junior  Sands  himself.  There  had  been  anx- 
ious moments,  which  had  increased  to 
hours,  days  and  weeks,  as  the  ice  had  dis- 
appeared and  the  white  frost  came  and 
went  and  the  cell  life  of  this  precious 
human  organism  began  to  show  color  and 
faint  signs  of  returning  life  activity. 

Imagine  the  scene  of  modest  victory 
among  the  little  group  of  watching,  work- 
ing, pantomimic  scientists,  when  at  the 
third  hour  after  the  bodily  temperature 


426  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

bad  been  restored  to  normal,  the  cardio- 
graph recorded  a  trace  of  collateral  circula- 
tion, followed  almost  immediately  by  a  very 
weak,  but  regular,  action  of  the  heart. 
There  was  color  in  the  cheeks  now,  and  the 
lungs  were  filling  and  expelling  the  breath 
regularly  with  a  watery  rattle,  which  rattle 
the  oxygen  machines  soon  relieved. 

The  young  genius  was  bending  down, 
peering  into  the  motionless  features,  when 
Jason  Sands  swung  his  huge  body  along- 
side his  son  with  a  single  stride  of  his  great 
crutches,  and  whispered  something  in  the 
radiant  youth's  ear.  There  was  a  hurried 
undertone  conversation;  the  younger  man 
stepped  back;  the  old  warrior  advanced  to 
the  motionless  figure  of  his  old  companion, 
took  both  his  hands  in  his  own,  looked 
straight  at  the  closed  eyes  and  uttered  a 
loud,  peculiar  cry.  It  was,  indeed,  a  pe- 
culiar cry.  It  sounded  like  "  Oo-o-wow-oo- 
o-o-o,"  starting  low  with  the  "Go,"  and 
rising  higher  and  higher,  until  the  highest 
pitch  poised  almost  at  the  breaking  point 
over  the  centre  of  the  "wow,"  it  slid  down, 
down  over  the  "o-o-oV  and  off  into  the 
deep  chest  of  the  man  who  had  sounded 
it.  There  was  a  slight,  spasmodic  jerking 
of  the  finger  tips,  but  aside  from  this  Ben 
Page  gave  no  sign  that  he  had  heard.  Three 
times  was  the  cry  repeated.  The  last  was 
louder  than  the  rest,  and  had  in  it  all  oi 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  427 

both  the  courage  and  terror  born  of  a 
danger-inheritance;  all  the  woes  and  an- 
guish of  a  starving  world  of  broken  hopes 
and  broken  hearts.  And.  it  went  out  in  a 
mournful  plaint,  tremulous  with  despair, 
and  cold  as  the  arctic  glacier  which  for 
four  years  had  held  Ben  Page  frozen  in 
its  hyemal  fangs.  As  the  last  gutteral 
moan  died  away  the  old  giant  of  the  moun- 
tains placed  his  lips  close  to  the  frost-bitten 
patient  and  called  sharply,  in  a  loud  voice: 
"Ben!  Ben!  Ben  Page!  Wolves,  Ben! 
Wolves!" 

They  were  magic  words,  freighted  with 
ominous  dread.  As  the  ear  drums  received 
and  vibrated  the  familiar  sounds  against 
the  sensitive  discs  of  the  brain  cells,  there 
was  a  perceptible  quivering  of  the  lips ;  the 
sagging  jaw  came  together  with  a  sharp 
clip;  a  tremor  agitated  the  prostate  form, 
and  the  eyes  of  Ben  Page  opened,  glared 
about  wildly,  and  rested  upon  other  eyes- 
eyes  that  were  big,  wide  apart  and  shaded 
by  heavy  snow-white  brows. 

There  had  been  no  prayers  said,  no  stink- 
pots twirled,  no  God-appeasing  sacrifices 
offered,  nor  other  forms  of  superstitious 
monkey-shining  indulged  in ;  and  a  man  had 
been  raised  from  the  dead! 

The  deans  proclaimed  it  a  miracle;  the 
good  priest  from  the  St.  Vitus  Rock  Church 
denounced  it  as  the  Devil's  doings,  crossed 


428  THE   TORCH   OP   REASON. 

himself  and  fled  from  the  ship.  But  Science 
stood  erect,  looked  Ignorance  in  the  eye, 
and  said:  "Be  not  afraid,  it  is  I." 

The  next  day  Quimby  and  Jason  Sands 
were  arrested  for  "practicing  medicine 
without  a  license ! ' ' 

Absurd  as  it  may  seem,  yet  it  is  true, 
nevertheless,  that  was  the  law.  Of  course, 
that  there  were  two  deans  present  made  no 
difference.  And  that  there  were  three  grad- 
uated physicians  on  board— members  of 
the  ship's  company,  was  not  sufficient  ex- 
cuse for  evading  the  laws  of  the  Great  State 
of  Missouri!  Hadn't  Jason  Sands  admin- 
istered the  wolf  call  ?  The  fact  of  the  mat- 
ter was,  that  neither  Quimby  Sands  nor 
Jason  Sands  had  any  diploma  to  show  that 
they  had  paid  a  lot  of  money  for  a  stereo- 
typed permit  to  legally  murder  a  sick  man. 
It  was  a  law  that  the  doctor  trust  lobbyed 
through  the  Legislature,  and  under  it  never 
again  might  an  old  woman  lay  in  a  supply 
of  herbs  from  the  fields,  nor  poultice  a  boil 
on  her  old  man's  nose.  Neither  might  one 
say,  "try  the  exercise  of  mental  self-con- 
trol," for  such  advice  constituted  the 
"practice  of  medicine,"  as  had  previously 
been  proven  in  the  case  of  Prof.  Evertz, 
mental  scientist,  and  was  in  violation  of  a 
trust-made  law  of  the  Great  State  of  Mis- 
souri! But  to  be  thrown  into  a  medical 
slot  machine  and  ground  out  a  licensed 
physician,  was  to  legalize  anything  with  the 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  429 

coin  to  kill  a  well  man  with  impunity ;  while 
for  a  layman  to  raise  the  dead  was  a  crime 
against  the  Great  State  of  Missouri! 

When  the  trial  came  off,  although  DO  case 
was  made  against  the  defendants,  mar- 
velous to  relate,  both  were  ordered  found 
guilty  before  a  jury  in  Judge  Moth's  Court 
of  Criminal  Correction  and  fined  fifty  dol- 
lars and  costs!  Ben  Page  was  there  as  a 
witness  for  the  state,  and  required  to  testify 
against  his  friends  and  benefactors.  Ben 
had  read  his  subpoena  over  and  over  again, 
wherein  was  this  injunction:  "Fail  not  to 
be  there  at  your  peril,"  wrote,  "Gk>  to 
hell"  on  the  back  of  it  and.  mailed  it  back 
to  the  court.  But  when  the  farce  was 
staged  Ben  was  there,  and  got  sent  to  the 
city  jail  for  six  months  for  contempt  of 
court  and  for  knocking  five  teeth  down  old 
State's  Attorney  Basswood's  throat  for  re- 
ferring to  Quimby  Sands  as  "the  lawless 
son  of  an  old  backwoods  hobo." 

Here  was  more  trouble.  But  there  was 
no  help  for  it.  Ben  had  to  go. 

There  was  no  getting  of  Jason  Sands 
away  from  St.  Louis  as  long  as  his  resur- 
rected former  partner  in  the  Broken  Bone 
Mine  was  in  prison.  It  was  the  last  straw. 
Why  could  not  Ben  have  foreborne!  But 
he  would  not  censure  him,  for,  had  Ben  not 
done  it,  secretly  in  his  own  heart  he  knew 
that  he  would  have  been  there  instead,  and 
most  likely  for  a  longer  term.  Besides, 


430  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Ben's  experience  with  courts  of  jus- 
tice" had  been  limited  to  the  justice  of 
Right,  in  the  court  of  Conscience,  where 
man  bulks  big  and  first  above  the  dollar 
sign. 

The  decline  of  Jason  Sands  from  that 
hour  was  rapid  and  sure.  He  had  stood 
the  trip  around  the  world  remarkably  well, 
rallying  from  that  awful  wolf  fight  and  the 
loss  of  Ms  limb  and  blood,  with  the  finding 
of  his  son ;  but  he  had  never  been  the  same. 
It  had  been  a  long,  uphill  pull.  Over  him 
a  leaden  veil  seemed  falling  to  drag  him 
down.  When  he  left  the  Broken  Bone  on 
that  pregnant  April  night  back  in  1910,  his 
one  thought  was  of  the  old  home ;  but  came 
the  reunion  on  the  Agitator  to  modify  this, 
though  the  old  longing  still  slumbered  in 
his  heart. 

One  day  lie  called  his  son  to  his  side, 
looked  long  and  lovingly  into  his  glowing 
face,  and  taking  him  fondly  by  the  hand 
said:  "Quim,  I  hate  to  mar  your  happi- 
ness, but  your  father's  work  is  over!  I  can 
feel  it  coming  on  me,  a  kind  of  sinking,  and 
a  numbness  gets  in  my  veins,  prickling  like 
needle  points.  I'm  not  laying  down,  Quim, 
but  I've  told  you  bow  it  is,  and  you  under- 
stand. I  wanted  to  go  back  there  once 
more  where  She  is;  but  I  guess  it's  too  late. 
I  know  you  would  have  taken  me,  but  I 
could  not  say  the  word  when  you  had  so 
much  to  do  for  others.  You  are  a  great 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  431 

young  man,  and  you  are  destined  to  be 
greater.  You  are  my  son,  my  only  son— all 
I  have  left  in  this  world — and  I  am  well 
pleased  in  you;  but  I  shall  have  to  leave 
you  before  long,  and  it  may  be  very  soon. 
Take  care  of  Ben,  Quim,  and  take  care  of 
yourself;  for  there 's  going  to  be  war  here! 
Mark  my  word,  boy,  there's  going  to  be 
war!  It  will  be  an  internal  war,  and  it  will 
be  here  before  another  Presidential  election 
rolls  around.  It  will  be  between  Capital 
and  Labor.  It  will  be  the  business  of  the 
Boy  Scouts  to  protect  the  property  of  the 
rich  and  murder  their  fathers  and  brothers. 
It  will  be  bitter,  revengeful  and  to  a 
finish." 

"But,  Father,  you  must  not  say  you  are 
going  to  be  ill.  You  forget  that  you  are 
on  board  the  Agitator,  and  that  we  don't 
permit  the  presence  of  the  Gaunt  Goddess 
on  this  craft.  Don't  be  alarmed.  We  will 
pull  you  through,  and  when  you  feel  well 
enough,  I  will  take  you  in  the  Comet  bac1* 
where  your  heart  lies  buried.  And  believe 
me,  Father,  there  will  be  no  more  war. 
Trust  that  to  the  Rod  Cadets,"  encouraged 
the  son  warmly. 

But  the  old  man  refused  to  be  consoled, 
and  his  illness  came  in  spite  of  all  that 
could  be  done  to  prevent  it.  It  was  the 
sequel  to  a  partial  stroke  of  valvular  par- 
alysis of  the  heart,  caused  partly  by  grief 
and  partly  by  excessive  violent  exertion. 


432  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

The  sickness  that  should  have  killed  all  but 
one  in  a  million,  held  him  down  for  sixteen 
long  months,  during  which  there  was  never 
a  moment  when  he  was  not  under  the  watch- 
ful eye  of  modern  Science.  His  life  was 
saved  at  last,  and  once  more  the  mind  had 
mastered. 

In  the  meantime  Ben  Page  had  served 
his  term,  and  then  another  six  months  for 
licking  the  craven  judge  who  had  sent  him 
up.  It  was  too  much  for  Ben— the  St,  Louis 
idea  of  justice!  Nor  did  he  ever  get  it 
quite  figured  out  just  how  it  all  came  about 
that  he  found  himself  there;  but  one  thing 
he  knew:  he  was  not  going  to  stay!  He 
would  foot  it  back  to  Alaska,  wolves  or  no 
wolves.  But  when  he  learned  that  gold  was 
no  longer  mined,  but  manufactured,  and 
that  there  was  no  market  for  it  now  other 
than  as  material  for  cooking  utensils, 
water-pipes  and  other  devises  of  use  and 
ornamentation,  he  changed  his  mind  and 
agreed  to  accompany  the  Comet  and  her 
party  to  New  Hampshire,  whither  his  old 
chum  Jason  was  bound. 

It  came  in  the  spring  of  1916.  Jason  was 
right,  there  was  going  to  be  war!  The 
Western  Federation  of  Miners,  the  I.  W. 
Ws.  and  the  American  Federation  of  Labor 
had  joined  the  Industrial  Co-operative  Dem- 
ocrats on  the  industrial  field,  and  declared 
for  Socialism,  and  the  Socialist  Party,  on 
the  political  field.  At  their  May  convention 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  433 

in  New  York,  the  American  Woman's  Suf- 
frage League  had  declared  for  Socialism, 
and  had  endorsed  the  Socialist  Party  by 
a  standing  vote,  which  was  unanimous  and 
enthusiastic.  Next  came  the  American 
Woman's  League  with  its  million  members 
all  into  the  great  International  Socialist 
Party.  The  pot  was  boiling  now,  and  still 
active  were  the  Red  Cadets,  heaping  the 
dry  fuel  of  classified  Socialist  propaganda 
continually  on  the  fire  of  the  Social  Revolu- 
tion. They  worked  among  their  classmates 
at  school,  invited  them  to  their  picnics, 
platted  off  the  towns  and  cities,  assigned 
wards,  precincts,  streets  and  block  to  va- 
rious regiments,  posts,  companies  and 
commands,  which  saw  to  it  that  every  indi- 
vidual was  known,  classified  and  regularly 
visited  with  papers,  pamphlets,  books  and 
music ;  and  it  was  wonderful  the  amount  of 
literature  they  sold. 

Then  came  the  Socialist  convention  in 
St.  Louis,  in  June,  1916.  If  the  pot  had 
boiled  before,  it  was  foaming  now!  There 
was  harmony  at  last,  and  the  entire  Social- 
ist ticket  was  bound  to  carry  in  November. 
Capitalism  was  madly  tearing  its  hair  for 
an  issue.  The  "good  men"  (for  bad  of- 
fices) bug  was  played  out.  They  had 
pulled  off  the  last  raw  deal.  They  were  at 
the  last  ditch.  Something  must  be  done! 
It  would  never  do  to  let  the  Socialists  win 
at  the  polls!  That  would  mean  the  end  of 


434  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

capitalistic  reign  forever !  That  would  mean 
that  profits  from  human  labor  must  cease! 
Wall  Street  would  have  to  shut  up  shop 
and  board  up  its  windows!  Graft  would 
be  at  an  end.  Child  slavery  could  exist  no 
more.  Poverty  would  vanish  like  mist  be- 
fore the  noonday  sun,  and  Labor  would  be- 
come respectable.  But  overshadowing  all 
this  like  a  terrible  curse,  hung  the  awful 
threat  of  Socialism  that  it  would  put  the 
parasites  to  work  earning  their  own  living 
at  some  sort  of  honest  labor.  It  would  never 
do!  It  was  preposterous!  It  was  un- 
Christian  and  un-Godly!  It  would  destroy 
their  incentive— to  steal!  It  would  bring 
them  all  down  to  the  dead  level  of  those 
from  whose  bended  backs  they  had  so  long 
sucked  the  blood  of  their  sustenance  like 
bedbugs  and  lice! 

Of  course,  it  was  optional  whether  they 
shouid  work  or  not;  but  the  alternative  was 
death  by  starvation,  and  it  would  be  up 
to  them. 

And  then  the  thing  happened.  The  Dick 
Military  Law  had  made  it  possible.  Morgan 
had  said  that  Labor  should  be  dealt  with  with 
an  iron  hand  at  the  proper  time.  The  real 
purpose  of  the  Boy  Scouts  was  known  at 
last.  Jason  was  a  prophet.  Government 
spies  had  been  busy  ringing  doorbells,  and 
every  male  citizen  was  spotted.  The  Beast 
was  arrogant,  blind  and  drunken  with 
wealth  and  power.  That  its  class  had  been 


THE    TORCH    OP    REASON.  435 

overthrown  and  driven  out  of  every  other 
nation,  taught  this  American  Beast  no  les- 
son. It  had  the  guns  and  it  proposed  to 
use  them.  Secretly,  at  first,  in  all  the  big 
cities  began  to  appear  *he  soldiers.  Every 
train  brought  a  few  more  of  these  cowards 
in  their  yellow  cotton  uniforms,  yellow  as 
the  yellow  of  their  murderous  hearts.  The 
''Regulars"  they  were,  and  as  Taft  once 
told  the  Cubans  in  a  public  speech,  "they 
were  the  scum  and  the  off-scourings  of  the 
civilized  earth."  They  knew  not  why  they 
were  in  St.  Louis,  but  they  were  there,  and 
the  streets  were  full  of  them.  That  they 
were  there  with  full  cartridge  belts  buckled 
around  their  pretty  waists  outside  their  cor- 
sets, and  with  shotted  and  bayonetted  guns, 
a  two-foot  hand  scythe  and  a  foot-and-a- 
half  automatic  pistol  at  their  hips,  was  the 
only  other  thing  they  knew  besides  that 
they  were  there  to  obey  orders.  That  it 
might  be  their  fathers,  mothers,  sisters, 
brothers  or  sweethearts  whom  they  were  to 
kill,  entered  not  into  their  understanding. 
They  had  no  understanding.  There  was 
nothing  in  their  little  tin  heads  with  wm>b 
to  understand  anything  but  "orders"  aihl 
the  smell  of  blood.  They  were  soldiers  ia 
the  "land  of  the  free  (lunch)  and  the  home 
of  the  brave."  and  were  they  not  brave? 
Let  the  order  come  to  shoot,  they  would 
show  'em !  They  would  shoot  to  kill ! 


436  THE   TORCH   OP   REASON. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Labor  was  to 
massacre  itself!  It  was  the  last  and  only 
remaining  method  of  preventing  a  Socialist 
victory  at  the  polls.  Something  was  to  be 
started— anything— just  to  get  them  all  into 
a  iight,  when  the  workers  and  Socialist 
agitators  were  to  be  corralled  like  a  game 
drive  and  shot  to  pieces  like  so  many 
rabbits. 

Tt  was  a  grand  scheme,  which  consisted 
of  ;iagging  labor  until  they  should  succeed 
in  nagging  it  into  an  open  breach  of  the 
peace,  when  the  Maxims  and  muskets  were 
to  spit  iead  and  steel  into  the  unarmed 
hosts  of  toil  from  every  street  corner.  They 
had  tried  to  pull  the  deal  off  twice  before, 
once  when  they  kidnapped  the  Western 
Federation  of  Miners'  officials,  and  later 
when  the  Interests  succeeded  in  wringing 
steieotyped  confessions  from  the  O'Mara 
brothers  with  the  aid  of  a  $10,000,000 
bribe,  at  Angels  Grate,  California.  That 
was  back  in  the  year  of  1911,  when  a  deep- 
laid  plot— deeper  than  Labor  knew— was 
consummated  through  years  of  devilish 
dealings,  leading  all  the  way  up  from  the 
farming  of  dynamite  bonds  to  the  buying  of 
labor  councils,  pulpits,  press,  courts  ani 
lawyers— even  to  the  purchase  of  the 
O'Maras,  who,  for  a  fee,  and  the  promise 
of  a  pardon  after  three  years  of  prison 
freedom,  pleaded  guilty  to  a  foul  and  cow- 
axdly  detective's  bloody  crime. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  437 

The  purpose  of  all  this  was  plain:  In 
order  to  successfully  make  war  on  Labor, 
fii^t  Labor  must  be  discredited  and  public 
opinion  framed  up  on  the  side  of  steel  and 
rope  and  lead— otherwise  known  as  "law 
and  order."  But  about  this  time  Progress 
took  another  step  forward.  A  co-operative 
syndicate  publishing  company  was  formed, 
for  the  purpose  of  printing  and  distributing 
a  local  Socialist  weekly  newspaper  in  ever/ 
town  and  village  in  the  country.  And  so 
the  people  got  to  hear  both  sides  of  thy 
question  and  were  able  to  judge  accord- 
ingly. 

The  coal  and  iron  mines  were  now  closed 
down,  and  for  three  months  not  a  wheel 
had  turned  in  any  of  the  great  steel  mills. 
There  was  a  panic  on,  and  Labor  was  locked 
out  from  access  to  the  means  of  life.  Mil 
lions  of  dispossessed  workers  and  their 
starving  families  were  tramping  the  streets, 
half -clad  and  menacing,  while  the  store- 
houses groaned  with  the  bursting  abund- 
ance of  the  surplus  wealth  their  own  hands 
had  created.  The  press-made  hero  tw- 
cumbrance  of  the  White  House — for  two 
consecutive  inflictions— had  been  renomi- 
nated  and  was  running  for  a  third  term, 
and  organized  labor  was  working  feverishly 
to  hold  back  a  threatened  general  strike. 

In  St.  Louis  the  factories  were  closed  and 
the  people  were  starving  and  sleeping  out  in 
vacant  lots  and  in  graveyards.  St.  Louis  was 


438  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

a  great  shoe  manufacturing  centre ;  but  there 
was  the  Jackson-Green  slave  pen,  which 
turned  out  the  "  American  Magdalene"  shoe 
for  the  Red  Light  trade,  with  windows  and 
doors  closed  and  shuttered  like  a  tomb. 

It  was  here  in  this  crashing  inferno  that 
Jason  Sands  had  worked  ten  hours  a  day, 
operating  a  "Niggerhead"  lasting  machine 
—the  one  machine  of  all  the  machinery  of 
earth,  known  as  the  "man-killer"  of  wage- 
slavery.  It  was  the  invention  of  a  negro, 
who  died  in  an  insane  asylum  after  his  in- 
vention had  been  stolen  from  him.  Hence 
the  appellation,  "Niggerhead."  It  was  the 
invention  of  this  machine  which  revolu- 
tionized the  shoe  industry.  And  still  they 
say  there  are  no  revolutions  but  bloody 
revolutions!  For  thousands  of  years  all 
shoes  had  been  lasted  by  hand;  and  to  pull 
over  and  last  120  pairs  in  a  day  was  con- 
sidered the  best  of  speed.  "No  machine 
can  ever  be  invented  that  will  last  a  shoe," 
the  old  hand-lasters  would  chuckle,  when- 
ever a  new  device  would  come  into  the  fac- 
tories to  displace  some  archaic  hand 
method.  But  the  "Niggerhead"  came,  and 
with  it  went  out  the  hand-laster,  never  to 
return.  With  its  cold  steel  jaws  snapping 
and  biting  into  the  leather,  one  man  oper- 
ating and  three  others  pulling  over,  it  could 
turn  out  from  600  to  1,000  pairs  a  day, 
where  by  hand  only  a  beginning  could  be 
made.  Into  these  steel  jaws  often  went 


THE   TORCH    OF   REASON'.  439 

the  fingers  of  the  operators,  and  on  three 
occasion  had  Jason's  been  bitten  and 
crushed  to  the  bone  in  the  sateless  jaws 
of  this  grim  iron  monster.  This  was  the 
machine  invented  by  a  poor  negro,  and 
stolen  by  a  rich  capitalist,  which  made  the 
great  Shoe  Machinery  Trust,  a  hundred 
million  dollar  corporation,  tribute  to  which 
every  human  being  in  America,  and  in 
nearly  all  the  rest  of  the  civilized  world, 
had  paid,  for  more  than  twenty-five  years 
without  a  protest. 

And  then  of  a  sudden  the  mask  fell 
from  the  Dick  Military  Law,  when,  on  the 
13th  day  of  August,  1916,  every  Socialist 
and  trade  unionist  was  visited  with  a  mili- 
tary order  commanding  him  to  report  at 
the  Armory  or  militia  headquarters  im- 
mediately, ready  for  active  service !  It  was 
a  nation-wide  mandate,  any  non-observ- 
ance of  which,  the  summons  read,  would 
be  considered  an  act  of  treason,  punishable 
by  court  martial,  at  the  hands  of  militia 
officers  only!  It  meant,  "come  and  shoot 
yourselves,  or  the  Regulars  will  shoot  you ! ' ' 

" Shoot  or  be  shot,"  was  the  urkus.  But 
we  shall  see  how,  with  the  coming  of  -the 
Red  Cadets,  it  was  destined  to  be  obeyed. 

"Father,  was  my  mother  a  very  beautiful 
woman?" 

The  Agitator  had  slipped  her  moorings 
in  the  night  and  had  dropped  down  the 
river  opposite  Carondelet,  and  was  lying 


440  THE   TORCH   OP   REASON. 

there  on  the  bottom  of  the  Mississippi, 
when  Quimby  Sands  drew  up  his  chair  be- 
side his  father's  and  asked  the  foregoing 
startling  question.  For  answer,  his  en- 
feebled sire  unbottoned  Ms  shirt  at  the 
throat  and  drew  forth  a  small,  smoothly- 
worn  gold  locket.  Opening  it  with  reverent 
touch,  he  gazed  silently  upon  the  tiny  da- 
guerreotype in  colors  there,  until  a  splash 
of  wet  fell  upon  the  hand  that  held  it,  then 
he  passed  the  locket  without  speaking  to 
his  adoring  son. 

One  hour  later  a  streak  of  white  fire 
burst  from  the  muddy  bosom  of  the  old 
Mississippi,  circled  the  beleaguered  city, 
scattered  a  ton  of  anti-war  leaflets  down  on 
the  heads  of  the  startled  populace,  opened 
the  current  for  full  speed  ahead  and  in  a 
jiffy  was  out  of  sight  on  her  record  run 
straight  for  the  hills  of  old  New  Hamp- 
shire. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

NOT  EVEN  IN  THE  GRAVE  ! 

I  saw  an  eagle  soar  a  mountain  by  the  sea 

Long,  long  ago! 
I  saw  an  ancient,  dead,  and  moss-grown  tree 

Fall  in  the  snow! 
To-day  I  stood  again — my  son  and  I — 

The  verdue  'mong, 
Where  that  old  monarch  reigned,  at  last  to  die, 

And  saw  a  young, 
Tall  giant  oak,  that  from  his  mould  did  rise 

In  grand  attire, 
To  beckon  vernal  greetings  to  the  skies 

As  did  his  sire. 
Nor  drifted  snows,  but  springtime  as  of  yore 

When  youth  was  gay. 
Nor  eagle,  but  a  bird-man  came  to  soar 

The  mount  to-day! 

When  Eec  Cotton  and  Jennie  Drew,  ac- 
companied by  the  entire  membership  of  the 
struggling  little  local  at  Ashworth,  came 
over  the  brow  of  the  western  ridge  next 
morning,  they  were  radiant  with  cheerful- 
ness, optimism  and  hope.  People  who  are 
accustomed  to  hardship  and  danger  are  slow 
to  admit  defeat.  Little  did  they  dream  of 
what  had  transpired  the  night  just  passing ; 
but  as  they  drew  nearer  the  commotion 
among  the  chickens  and  stock  attracted 
their  attention  and  quickened  their  pace. 


442  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

The  snow  was  slumpy,  and  they  came  up 
the  drifted  lane  single  file  and  with  labo- 
rious tread.  Rec  was  in  the  lead  and  at  the 
corner  of  the  old  mansion  he  paused,  turned 
to  the  others  and  pointed  without  speaking 
at  a  faint  red  glow  shining  through  a  small 
clear  spot  in  the  frosty  west  window.  Then 
they  rushed  the  oaken  door  and  stormed 
into  the  bleak  old  house.  It  was  empty, 
silent,  and  cold! 

On  the  kitchen  table  lay  a  letter  in  a 
soiled,  unstamped  envelope.  The  envelope 
had  been  opened  a  long  time  since,  for  it 
was  addressed  in  a  feminine  hand  to  Jason 
Sands.  It  was  one  of  the  bundle  of  letters 
that  had  come  from  Alaska,  and  Jennie 
Drew  hesitated,  almost  guiltily,  as  she 
scanned  its  contents.  There  were  many 
soiled  thumb  marks  around  the  margin,  and 
below  a  pretty  butterfly  printed  in  colors 
she  read  these  words  in  faded  violet  ink : 
"Raven  Boost,  Oct.  18,  1890. 

"Jason,  Dearest  one — Come  over  to  the 
husking,  Saturday  night,  love.  Leland  will 
see  about  the  music,  and  I  shall  make  the 
pumpkin  pies.  Belle  and  Fred  are  coming, 
and  there'll  be  fun,  O,  my  husband! 

"I've  put  three  red  ears  in  one  shock  and 
marked  it  for  you  and  I.  O  you  rogue ! 

"God  bless  and  keep  you,  my  dear,  big 
boy.  "ERMA." 

Jennie  was  greatly  moved  and  clearly 
disappointed,  and  was  folding  the  letter  to 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  443 

put  it  back  in  its  soiled  envelope  when  she 
caught  sight  of  something  written  coarsely 
in  pencil  on  the  back,  and  read: 

"To  Whoever  Finds  This: 

"I  know  it's  wrong  fer  ter  do  it,  but 
they  ain't  no  more  to  stay  fer,  and  I'm 
agoin'  where  peace  is.  You  will  find  what's 
left  of  me  in  the  barn,  and  I  want  to  be 
laid  away  in  the  lot  yender  where  the  others 
be  at  rest.  I  ain't  agoin'  to  Heaven,  fer 
God  is  agin  this  ear  thing;  but  I've  been  as 
good  as  they'd  let  me  be,  and  it  comes  hard 
to  be  driv  out  of  the  world.  Erma  went 
asmilin'  and  is  restin'  peaceful.  And  Jason 
will  never  come. 

"I  hain't  no  will,  but  what's  left  of  mine 
arfter  settlin'  up  I  want  Stanley  Lark  to 
have;  fer  he'll  use  it  doin'  the  will  of 
Humanity's  God. 

"Them  thet's  been  at  outs  with  me  is 
fergi'n,  but  I've  been   crucified  and  driv 
out.     Be  good  to  Black  Raven  and   Old 
Bess;  they  hain't  never  had  no  abuse,  and 
they  be  all  thet'll  miss  me  when  I'm  gone. 
"Goodbye, 
"  L.  B.  TANNERHILL." 

Jennie  had  just  finished  reading  the 
awful  missive  when  the  men  rushed  in  from 
the  barn  to  confirm  the  sad  tidings.  There 
they  had  found  the  body,  lifeless  and  rigid, 
hanging  from  the  great  beams  by  the  raw- 
hide thong. 


444  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

There  was  a  fuss  over  the  property,  re- 
sulting in  the  town  stepping  in  and  taking 
possession.  Of  course  the  Socialists  were 
powerless  to  sustain  their  claim,  there  being 
neither  date  nor  witness  to  the  alleged  will. 
Moreover,  they  made  the  testator  out  an 
irresponsible  victim  of  insanity,  although 
the  physician  who  dressed  his  wound  in  the 
Town  Hall  gave  controversial  testimony. 
That  the  old  man  was  perfectly  sane  when 
he  wrote  that  letter  there  was  never  the 
slightest  doubt  in  any  man's  mind;  but 
there  was  "pickings"  on  a  dead  man's 
bones  and  the  vultures  had  beaks  with 
which  to  tear! 

It  was  at  about  this  time  that  the  Lake- 
port-Lakeshore  &  Bald  Mountain  Railway 
Co.  was  organized  at  Boston,  a  corporation 
with  $100,000,000  capital.  That  its  chief 
stockholders  were  the  very  millionaires  who 
summered  at  The  Bridge  was  considered  a 
great  feather  in  the  social  cap  of  that  hi- 
bernating country  bailiwick.  Opening  offices 
in  Lakeport,  The  Weirs,  Meredith  Village, 
Centre  Harbor  and  Ashworth,  it  began  the 
sale  of  stock  with  the  most  supercilious 
sang-froid,  and  in  high-handed  contempt  of 
the  fact  that  no  franchise  had  as  yet  been 
granted  it,  it  possessed  no  charter,  and  no 
assurance  that  it  could  ever  get  permission 
from  the  state  to  lay  a  rail. 

But  the  L.  L.  &  B.  M.  R.  B.  Co.  knew  its 
business ! 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  445 

With  a  snug  block  of  one  thousand  shares 
tucked  away  in  his  inside  pocket,  any  other 
preacher  less  mercenary  than  the  Right 
Kev.  Yancel  Lea  must  also  have  been  "in- 
spired" to  preach  long-winded  sermons  in 
favor  of  the  "wonderful  civilizing  influ- 
ences of  railroads"  passing  through  a  rural 
community!  All  commentaries  bearing  on 
the  dangers,  noise,  and  disfiguring  effects 
on  the  beautiful  mountain  landscape  were 
ventured  only  by  the  honest  farmers  scat- 
tered along  the  route,  and  these  fell  flat  and 
unheeded  on  the  groomed  ears  of  the 
bloated  politicians,  like  winnowed  chaff  on 
a  stagnant  pool. 

In  the  year  1916  the  much  discussed 
"Lakeshore,"  as  it  had  boiled  down  to,  had 
completed  its  line  around  Lake  Winnepe- 
saukee  from  Laconia  to  North  Sandwich 
west  of  Red  Hill,  and  rooted  up  its  ugly 
trail  the  length  of  the  beautiful  north- 
western boundary  of  the  old  Squam  Lake 
to  the  Tannerhill  uplands.  All  opposition 
had  subsided  and  its  victory  was  complete. 
And  so,  when  it  leaked  out  that  a  hundred 
foot  cut  had  been  surveyed  right  through 
the  middle  of  the  old  mountain  graveyard, 
a  threatened  storm  of  protest  arose,  but  was 
quickly  preached  down. 

That  deacon  Jedediah  Cousins  had  re- 
ceived a  complimentary  hundred  shares  of 
the  L.  L.  &  B.  M.  R.  R.  preferred,  was  a 
secret  that  had  never  leaked  out.  As  a 


446  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

matter  of  fact,  the  company  had  bribed  or 
gotten  " removed"  every  public  servant, 
from  hogreeve  to  state  Senator,  with  from 
one,  to  ten  thousand  shares  of  its  stock ;  and 
that's  the  way  the  L.  L.  &  B.  M.  R.  R.  Bill 
came  to  be  passed  in  the  state  legislature. 

In  Ashworth,  where  six  years  before, 
Stanley  Lark  had  delivered  the  speech  that 
brought  down  the  wrath  of  the  god  of  Cap- 
italism and  the  Aberrant,  there  was  a  link 
in  the  chain  of  the  Red  Cadets,  a  chapter 
of  the  American  Woman's  League,  a  key 
of  the  Industrial  Co-operative  Democrats, 
and  the  membership  of  all  carried  the  red 
card  of  the  Socalist  Party.  The  local  had 
grown  until  it  had  assimilated  the  majority 
and  the  best  of  every  political  party,  con- 
trolled the  schools,  and  dominated  every 
sect,  religious  creed  and  secret  society,  and 
had  become  "respectable,"  with  the  respect- 
ability of  numerical  strength!  It  was  on 
every  tongue,  that  the  Socialists  were  bound 
to  sweep  everything  at  the  coming  election ; 
and  that's  why,  more  than  for  any  other 
reason,  they  had  become  popular. 

As  the  day  approached  for  the  annual 
Labor  Day  picnic,  excitement  ran  high.  As 
usual,  there  was  to  be  a  week  of  it  in  their 
beautiful  lakeshore  park  at  the  Bridge ;  and 
many  white  tents  already  dotted  the  green 
turf  just  back  of  the  white  sandy  beach. 
The  Red  Cadets  were  the  first  to  get  the 
news  of  it,  for  they  had  the  most  perfect 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  447 

system  and  code  of  wireless  telegraphy  in 
the  country;  Jason  Sands  was  to  be  the 
guest  of  honor,  and  Quimby  Sands,  the 
young  inventor  of  the  Comet  and  Agitator, 
and  founder  of  the  Red  Cadets,  was  to  de- 
liver the  Labor  Day  address.  The  word 
had  gone  out  to  all  the  surrounding  vil- 
lages, and  accommodations  for  ten  thousand 
had  been  arranged. 

And  then  of  a  sudden,  when  hearts  were 
filled  with  joy  and  the  faces  of  old  and 
young  were  alight  with  promise  of  peace 
that  should  never  end,  over  the  face  of  the 
earth  rolled  the  horrid  black  cloud  of  war! 
The  Socialists— the  people  were  for  peace; 
but  Wall  Street— the  kennel  of  Capitalism 
-had  no  such  "mollycoddle"  ideas.  Only 
by  war  could  Capitalism  perpetuate  itself. 
With  the  Presidential  election  only  two 
months  off,  and  labor  organized  to  a  man, 
it  would  never  do  to  allow  the  popular  cele- 
bration of  Labor  Day,  and  so  martial  law 
was  declared,  and  every  male  citizen  be- 
tween the  ages  of  eighteen  and  forty-five 
was  notified  to  report  for  enrollment  at  the 
Town  Hall. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  which 
the  Sands  party  found  itself,  when,  on  the 
morning  of  September  the  first,  1916,  the 
Comet,  cutting  the  air  at  full  speed,  de- 
scended in  a  corkscrew  spiral  and  alighted 
in  the  street  at  Ashworth  in  front  of  the 
Holiness  Tavern. 


448  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

And  now  was  to  come  the  clash— the  final 
test  of  strength.  It  was  the  few  against 
the  many;  bullet  against  brain;  greed 
against  intelligence,  and  military  power 
against  working  class  solidarity. 

The  Beast,  Capitalism,  was  entrenched 
behind  the  bristling  breastworks  of  every 
war  device  known  to  civilized  barbarism. 

Labor  was  standing  erect  on  the  field, 
guided  by  truth  and  reason,  and  armed  only 
with  the  justice  of  its  cause. 

Capitalism  commanded  the  army  and 
navy,  but  Labor  commanded  the  gears  and 
levers ! 

Capitalism  possessed  powder  and  lead, 
Labor  possessed  the  power  to  create  and 
supply  bread. 

The  Beast  could  bawl  orders  from  behind 
parapets  of  stone  and  steel,  but  Labor  could 
lie  down  in  its  attic  chamber  or  in  the 
shade  of  the  green  forests,  while  around 
the  bloody  claws  of  the  helpless  Beast  must 
crawl  the  maggots  of  decay. 

Capitalism  had  reckoned  only  its  author- 
ity; Labor  reckoned  its  numbers. 

Capitalism  possessed  the  dry  papers  of 
ownership;  Labor  possessed  the  creative 
energy  and  muscular  strength.  Also,  Labor 
possessed  a  solid  phalanx  of  unbroken 
unionism  and  co-operative  will.  Added  to 
which,  Labor  had  achieved  the  woman  suf- 
frage, and  in  every  state  in  the  Union,  the 
wives  and  mothers,  sisters  and  sweethearts 


THE    TORCH    OF    REASON.  449 

of  the  progressive  workers  were  now  recog- 
nized as  human  beings,  and  were  allowed 
to  vote. 

They  never  came  to  blows.  One  day  of  it 
was  enough  for  the  Beast.  Instantly  fol- 
lowing the  AVar  Department's  martial  edict, 
was  issued  from  the  headquarters  of  the 
Industrial  Democrats,  the  order  for  the 
General  Strike!  It  was  flashed  to  the  sec- 
retary of  every  branch  in  the  United  States 
and  the  tie-up  was  complete.  It  lasted  just 
twenty-four  hours,  during  which  time  not 
a  single  soul  who  worked  for  wages  lifted  a 
hand.  The  wireless  system  of  the  Socialists 
was  so  complete,  that  when  the  order  was 
clicked  off  to  stop  work  at  sunset,  Standard 
time,  it  was  caught  up  everywhere  on  the 
instant.  Even  running  trains  and  ships 
along  the  coast  received  it;  for  ships  and 
trains  like  factories  and  mines,  were  oper- 
ated by  workingmen. 

On  the  blistering  desert  two  trains,  pass- 
ing each  other,  one  a  freight,  the  other  a 
lightning  express,  shut  off  steam,  dumped 
their  fires,  put  on  the  breaks  and  came  to 
a  stop,  one  beside  the  other  on  the  double 
tracks  of  the  great  Union  Pacific.  A  Great 
White  Star  liner,  bound  for  Liverpool, 
caught  the  message  as  she  was  getting 
under  way  just  outside  New  York  Harbor. 
In  five  minutes  her  fires  were  banked,  the 
wheel  lashed,  and  her  two  huge  anchors 


450  THE    TORCH    OF   REASON. 

firmly  hooked  to  the  muddy  bottom  of  the 
Sound. 

Other  trains  and  other  ships  were  like- 
wise held  up,  wherever  they  happened  to 
be.  Factories,  mines,  street  railways  and 
light  and  water  supplies  suffered  with  the 
rest,  as  did  telephone  and  telegraph  sys- 
tems, butcher,  bakers,  dairies  and  the  em- 
ployers of  house  servants.  Offices  were 
closed.  Banks  were  closed.  The  Postal 
system  was  tied  up,  and  the  War  Depart- 
ment was  beside  itself  with  fury. 

A  troop-train  crossing  a  trestle,  in  some 
mysterious  way  broke  a  coupling  and  was 
left  standing  there,  while  the  engine  and 
tender  pulled  on  into  the  night.  Then  it 
was  learned  that  neither  brakeman  nor  con- 
ductor were  to  be  found  on  board  the  stalled 
train !  And  what,  under  the  circumstances, 
was  to  be  done? 

And  so  it  came  to  pass,  that  the  Beast, 
being  unschooled  in  the  art  of  feeding  him- 
self, waxed  anhungered  and  sore  athirst. 
Peradventure  he  might  find  for  the  places 
of  his  striking  slaves,  large  quantities  of 
hungry  scabs — happy  thought!  So  he  be- 
stirred himself  and  wandered  forth  into  the 
glooming,  making  cooing  sounds  in  imita- 
tion of  the  turtledove.  Alas,  his  siren  songs 
fell  unheeded  upon  the  painted  ears  of  a 
wooden  Indian !  There  were  no  more  scabs, 
save  for  the  ulcers  of  riotous  living  upon 
its  own  scurvy  back. 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  451 

Then  the  Beast  became  exceeding  wroth! 
Down  the  silent  empty  streets  it  tore 
through  the  back  yard  of  the  Execution 
Mansion,  coatless  and  collarless,  clad  prin- 
cipally in  300  pounds  of  negligee  fat,  a  pair 
of  size  12  calfskins  and  a  "God  knows" 
look  of  deep  concern. 

The  Daily  Liar  held  forth  just  around 
the  corner,  and  undeviating  thither  the 
Beast  hied  himself;  for  was  it  not,  for- 
sooth, the  mouthpiece  of  the  Beast's  Re- 
gime? 

At  the  elevator  he  jabbed  a  large  and 
juicy  thumb  eleven  times  against  the  white 
bell  button,  then  proceeded  to  climb  twenty- 
seven  flights  of  narrow  iron  stairs,  puffing 
like  the  proverbial  porpoise  the  while,  and 
exuding  generously  of  that  epidermiferous 
moisture  in  which  God  is  said  to  have  ad- 
monished Mr.  Adam  and  Miss  Eva  to  eat 
their  daily  bread. 

In  the  familiar  region  of  the  editorial 
sanctum  he  paused  for  wind,  mopped  his 
troubled  brow,  and  made  copious  sounds 
like  the  dollar  sign;  but  the  only  response 
that  came  echoing  through  the  silent  cor- 
ridors was  the  lonesome  cry  of  the  hungry 
office  cat. 

Back  rushed  the  Beast  to  the  White 
(washed)  House  of  Capitalism.  But  when 
he  found  that  robbers'  roost  vacant  of  serv- 
ants he  was  ready  to  sue  for  peace. 


452  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

Labor  had  stood  upon  its  feet;  and  Cap- 
italism had  fallen  on  its  knees  for  mercy. 
Labor,  the  giant,  had  spoken  the  word ;  and 
Capitalism,  the  pigmy,  had  bent  the  knee. 
United  Labor,  the  god,  had  struck  at  the 
task ;  and  now  it  was  going  to  strike  at  the 
ballot  box  as  it  had  struck  at  the  task— 
united.  There  was  no  parading  of  the 
streets ;  no  mob  violence ;  no  speech-making 
and  no  demands.  Labor  had  simply  gone 
home,  locked  itself  indoors  and  waited. 
Labor  had  struck  scientifically,  and  it  had 
won.  It  was  its  first  and  last  real  strike. 

At  Ashworth,  the  truth  was  learned  of 
the  sad  end  of  Leland  Tannerhill  back  in 
1910.  The  grief  of  Jason  Sands  was  pitiful 
indeed.  Also,  it  was  patent  that  he  was 
rapidly  failing  in  strength.  On  the  Satur- 
day morning  before  Labor  Day,  he  called 
his  son  to  his  side  and  said:  "Quim,  there's 
a  voice  that  sounds  familiar  calling  me  at 
the  journey's  end.  I  am  well  enough  today, 
come,  let  us  go.  I  want  to  see  the  old  man- 
sion. I  want  to  see  the  treer  and  the  rocks 
where  she  and  I  used  to  steal  away  among 
the  shadows  in  secret  to  tell  the  old  for- 
bidden story.  And  I  want  to  stand  once 
more  by  her  side,  where  there  is  peace  and 
rest,  the  peace  and  rest  that  is  secure  and 
certain.  Come.  It  is  time  to  go." 

It  was  a  short  eight  miles  for  the  Comet. 
She  alighted  under  the  great  maple  in  the 
dooryard  by  the  old  well-house  in  front  of 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  453 

Raven  Roost  mansion.  And  Oh !  the  Raven 
Roost  that  it  had  come  to  be ! 

Weeds  and  burdocks  grew  tall  around 
the  saddle-back  barn,  whose  doors  had 
blown  down  and  whose  timbers  were  sag- 
ging to  their  fall.  From  a  great  beam  di- 
rectly over  the  middle  of  the  floor  still  dan- 
gled some  of  the  rawhide  thong,  marking 
the  place  where  died  alone  the  friend  of  all 
living  things,  the  great  white-souled  hermit. 
Not  by  his  own  hand,  as  the  corporation- 
owned  Aberrant  had  said,  but  as  a  result 
of  the  slow  poison  administered  at  the 
hands  of  the  capitalist  system,  of  which  the 
Aberrant  was  one  virulent  fang. 

The  chimney  had  split  in  the  centre  and 
was  ready  to  fall;  and  in  tho  old  house 
the  rooms  were  bare.  Everything  had  been 
stripped  away  save  a  portrait  of  a  feminine 
beauty  that  still  clung  askew  to  the  wall. 
It  was-  the  picture  of  Erma,  taken  on  the 
day  when  she  was  married  in  secret  to 
Jason  Sands.  Jason  hobbled  forward  to 
straighten  it;  but  with  the  first  touch  tbe 
rusty  wire  gave  way,  letting  it  fall  into 
his  outstretched  arms.  Tenderly  and  wist- 
fully he  looked  into  the  soft  brown  eyes, 
until  his  hands  trembled  and  his  sight 
blurred.  Placing  it,  at  length,  on  the  dusty 
mantel  he  edged  through  the  door  when  the 
others  were  not  looking  and  slipped  out  un- 
observed among  the  trees. 


454  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

There  were  evidences  of  an  auction  hav- 
ing been  held  on  the  premises,  when,  in  all 
probability  the  antique  furnishings  had 
been  disposed  of  at  high  prices  to  the  sum- 
merers. 

Ben  Page  was  in  the  party,  but  he  had 
started  'out  on  an  investigation  excursion 
all  by  himself  and  was  not  missed  until  he 
called  out  sharply  from  the  kitchen  fire- 
place: "I'll  'low  that  freezin'  up  in  'Lasky 
and  gettin'  thawed  out  in  St.  Louis  is  goin' 
some,  and  bein'  eat  up  and  disgorged  b1 
wolves  is  goin'  some  more;  but  in  the  here- 
after I  ain't  agoin'  tue  have  no  nuts  work 
luse  over  marikles.  Bersides  I  hain't  been 
hit  like  this  yere's  ahittin'  me  sense  Jase 
left  me  an  empty  shack  t'  come  home  tue 
on  the  Broken  Bone."  As  he  finished 
speaking  the  man  whose  life  Quimby  Sands 
had  so  miraculously  given  back  to  hin,  laid 
the  packages  sent  from  Alaska  in  which  had 
come  the  nugget  of  gold  and  Jason's  love 
letters,  together  with  an  old  plush-covered 
album  in  that  young  man's  hands.  It 
seemed  that  Leland,  thinking  Jason  dead 
and  wishing  to  leave  behind  as  little  belong- 
ing to  their  sacred  love  as  possible,  had,  on 
the  night  he  stepped  over  the  threshold  into 
the  dark  depths  of  the  Unknown,  stuffed 
the  bundles  into  the  brick  oven,  lighted 
some  damp  paper  and  thrown  it  after  them, 
then  closed  the  door  without  opening  the 
damper.  Ben,  whose  curiosity  was  large 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  455 

like  the  generosity  of  his  heart,  had  pried 
open  the  rusty  oven  door  and  drawn  them 
forth.  The  nugget  of  gold  Leland  had 
forced  upon  Stanley  Lark  as  a  memento 
of  their  friendship  which  had  been  so  dear. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Jason  was 
missed,  by  all  hands  at  the  same  time.  The 
last  that  anyone  could  remember  of  him 
was  that  he  had  placed  the  picture  of  his 
dead  wife  on  the  mantel.  No  one  saw  him 
leave  and  the  house  was  searched  from  cel- 
lar to  attic  without  avail.  Into  and  under 
the  old  barn  next  they  scurried,  looking  in 
every  secret  hole  and  corner,  and  then  some 
one  thought  of  the  well.  But  it  took  no  sec- 
ond look  to  ascertain  that  nothing  could 
have  fallen  down  through  the  network  of 
cobwebs  which  completely  screened  its  black 
mouth.  It  was  Ben  Page  who  solved  the 
mystery.  Ben  was  a  woodsman  and  knew 
all  the  tricks  of  the  trailer.  "This  way," 
he  called  from  the  edge  of  the  maple  grove, 
"he's  tuck  tue  the  bresh  and  like's  not's 
over  tother  side  of  the  mountain  and  half 
way  t'  Canady  by  this  time;  fer  them's  his 
crotch  holes  in  them  there  leaves,  or  I'm  a 
yarler  dog  barkin'  up  the  wrong  tree  at  a. 
quillpig  'stead  of  a  coon." 

Sure  enough!  the  crutches  had  left  an 
easy  trail.  At  a  signal  from  young  Sands 
the  Comet's  crew  took  their  places,  and  the 
search  began  in  real  earnest  from  above, 
while  Ben  held  to  the  course  below.  The 


456  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

airship  had  scarcely  cleared  the  tree  tops 
when  her  great  lenses,  focused  on  the  old 
burying  ground,  revealed  the  secret.  Also 
it  reve'aled  more  than  a  secret— it  revealed 
a  horror— a  twentieth  century  capitalistic 
horror ! 

There  was  Jason  Sands  at  the  grave  of 
his  lost  wife,  Erma,  wildly  leaping  on  his 
one  good  leg  among  a  belligerent  groop  of 
silk-hatted  gentlemen,  who  were  striking 
and  kicking  at  him  from  all  sides,  his 
crutches  smashed  with  the  first  onslaught. 
He  had  tried  to  slip  away  alone,  that  he 
might  lie  down  beside  her  quiet  tomb  and 
give  himself  up  to  thoughts  of  her;  but  as 
he  became  more  and  more  submerged  in 
the  familiar  depths  of  the  great  maple  for- 
est, the  old  premonition  of  some  impending 
terror  caught  hold  of  him  from  every  angle. 
The  winds  whispered  it;  the  trees  shud- 
dered with  it ;  every  bough  and  leaf  creaked 
and  sighed  because  of  it,  and  it  seemed  that 
her  sweet  youthful  spirit  flitted  on  before 
him  to  warn  him  a  last  time  of  some  awful 
danger. 

In  the  middle  of  the  woods  he  stopped, 
turned  sharply  about,  glared  searchingiy 
among  the  heavy  foliage  then  pressed  hur- 
ridly  on  over  the  old  path  to  the  little 
churchyard.  Emerging  from  the  edge  of 
the  timber,  what  his  eyes  fell  upon  his 
brain,  for  the  moment,  was  incapable  of 
comprehending.  There  where  had  peace- 


THE    TORCH    OF   REASON.  457 

fully  reposed  for  a  hundred  years  the  re- 
spected mold  of  both  pioneer  and  progen- 
ator,  ran  the  ugly  scar  of  a  raw  railroad 
cut,  right  through  the  middle  of  that  an- 
cient mortuary.  A  railroad  through  a 
graveyard,  and  without  first  removing  the 
dead!  It  was  beyond  belief!  But  there  it 
was,  not  quite  through,  but  close  to  the 
western  wall  where  the  sacred  dirt  was 
fresh  dug. 

He  hurried  on.  The  workmen  had  just 
left  for  the  day  and:  were  now  vanishing 
homeward  over  the  far  side  of  the  hill,  for 
it  was  Saturday,  and  Saturday  was  a  half- 
holiday  for  workingmen  who  build  road 
beds  for  their  masters. 

But  there  were  other  men— fine  gentle- 
men in  stylish  clothes  walking  briskly 
about,  smoking  costly  cigars  and  jabbing 
their  gold-topped  canes  sportively  into  the 
eyeless  sockets  of  what  once  had  been  the 
skulls  of  men. 

As  the  horrified  husband  and  father 
swung  himself  rapidly  nearer  the  awful 
spectacle,  a  shambling  hulk  of  a  brute 
climbed  out  over  the  ridge  of  dirt  and  bones 
and  paused  to  look  back,  like  a  sheep-killing 
dog  gloating,  with  satid  lust,  over  his  foul 
work.  It  was  the  gang  boss,  and  toward 
him  the  huddle  of  prosperous-looking  stock 
speculators  moved,  leaving  their  chugging 
automobiles  behind;  chattering,  laughing 
and  gesticulating  cheerily,  they  approached 


458  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

the  clay-begrimed  gang-boss  and  shook  him 
warmly  by  the  hand,  as  if  this  brute  of  a 
slave  driver  were  some  dearly  beloved  and 
long-sought  friend! 

With  the  sweat  streaming  from  every 
pore,  and  winded  from  the  excessive  exer- 
tion, Jason  paused  beside  a  shattered  head- 
stone, and  placing  the  fragments  together, 
read : 

EEMA 
WIFE  OF  JASON  SANDS. 

MATED  IN  PERFECT  LOVE 

©  « 

WEDDED  IN  SACRED 
MATRIMONY. 

»  « 
MARTYRED 

SHE  CAME  HERE  TO  REST 
DEC.  25th,  1890. 

He  had  entered  unobserved  save  by  the 
chauffeurs,  who  eyed  him  cynically  through 
their  dusty  goggles. 

Yes,  that  was  her  headstone,  but  where 
was  she? 

There  was  the  weeping  willow  and  the 
silver  birch  he  had  planted,  one  at  her 
head  and  the  other  at  her  feet,  uprooted 
and  dead. 

He  gazed  half  dreamily  about  him,  a 
mist  was  before  his  eyes  and  his  brain 
burned  and  throbbed  like  the  imprisoned 
lava  of  a  volcano,  ready  to  burst  forth  and 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  459 

consume  the  world.  Erma's  grave  violated ! 
The  sanctuary  of  his  dead  wife  desecrated! 
The  last  resting  place  of  the  dead  virgin 
mother  of  his  only  son  raped  to  garner 
dividends  on  watered  stocks  for  the  bribe- 
taking  masters  of  men  \viih  votes! 

There  was  no  peace,  not  even  in  the 
grave! 

As  he  stared  bewilderingly  and  half  in- 
sane with  rage  about  him  for  the  exact 
location  of  what  had  been  her  last  abode, 
he  did  not  hear  the  toot  of  an  auto  horn 
honking  a  signal,  nor  did  he  notice  the 
gang  boss,  with  bellicose  mien  bearing  down 
upon  him  with  hasty  stride. 

His  attention  had  been  attracted  by  a 
familiar  glitter  among  the  bones  lying 
about  his  feet,  and  frantically  he  strove  to 
control  his  outraged  passion.  Falling  on 
his  knees  beside  a  small,  feminine-looking 
skull,  he  was  in  the  act  of  examining  a 
certain  familiar  gold-filled  tooth  in  the 
upper  jaw,  when  the  blaspheming  gang-boSvS 
swooped  down  upon  him. 

"  'Hell  'yer  doin'  there,  youze  old  grey 
stiff?  Tryin'  t'  rob  the  dead?  Get  t'  hell 
along,  or  I'll  put  the  boot  t'  yer,"  was  his 
introduction  to  the  man  of  sorrows.  At 
the  same  time  giving  him  a  vicious  push 
which  sent  the  Tmeeling  cripple  sprawling 
on  his  back,  and  then  he  deliberately  kicked 
the  fragile  skull  over  the  embankment  into 
the  ditch! 


460  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

It  was  Jason  Sands'  last  fight!  Mortal 
flesh  and  mind  could  not  endure  such  as 
this!  He  knew  that  bleaching  skull  to  be 
the  relic  of  his  one  love;  his  only  sweet- 
heart; the  wife  who  had  so  loved  him  that 
she  laid  down  her  life  for  him,  smiling  hap- 
pily that  thus  her  great  love  for  him  might 
find  its  full  expression. 

And  then  the  fight  began! 

With  the  bowling  over  of  the  giant  Jason, 
up  rushed  the  whole  mob  of  parasites,  eager 
to  be  in  with  their  canes  or  a  kick  in  the 
face  now  that  the  man  was  down.  They 
didn't  know  what  it  was  all  about,  but  they 
did  know  that  they  owned  that  graveyard, 
for  were  there  not  signs  posted  all  around 
it  warning  against  tresspass? 

Jason  Sands,  though  grey,  and  an  infirm 
cripple,  was  up  the  instant  he  was  down. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  any 
man  bad  ever  gotten  the  drop  on  him  to 
put  him  on  his  back. 

With  a  loud  clip  his  powerful  jaws  came 
together,  powdering  the  edges  of  his  per- 
fect teeth  and  swelling  the  great  muscles  of 
his  face  and  neck  until  they  stood  out  like 
bands  of  iron. 

His  eyes  saw  the  jackals  and  the  hyenas, 
the  vultures  and  the  graveyard  ghouls — the 
tools,  the  fangs  of  Capitalism— rushing  him 
and  snarling  at  him  from  all  sides;  but  he 
did  not  fear  them.  They  were  but  straws 
ill  his  hands,  to  fall  before  his  might  like 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  461 

reeds  in  the  path  of  the  cyclone.  Other 
eyes  there  were  which  saw  other  sights— 
other  visions— the  objects  of  other  days. 
They  were  the  inverted  eyes  of  his  mental 
processes  looking  back  into  the  vistas  of 
the  past,  to  see  fond  mothers  weeping  over 
tiny  mounds  of  fresh  heaped  earth.  They 
saw  long  processions  of  black-garbed 
mourners  following  some  loved  one  to  this 
self-same  place  of  final  rest.  They  re- 
viewed again  the  double  funeral  of  his 
father  and  mother,  the  one  fair  of  face  and 
hair,  with  slender  white  hands  folded  on 
her  maternal  breast;  the  other  huge,  scar- 
featured,  and  with  a  folded  armless-  sleeve 
—armless  as  it  had  come  back  from  Gettys- 
burg. And  then  they  turned  to  her — his 
Erma!  His  lips  moved,  shaped  her  treas- 
ured name  piteously  and  hopelessly,  like  the 
cry  of  one  death-struck,  alone  and  sinking 
in  mid-ocean. 

But  the  wolves  were  upon  him! 

The  gang  boss  was  a  big  young  thug, 
husky  and  vicious  with  the  viciousness  that 
comes  naturally  with  the  unnatural  environ- 
ment of  his  foul  profession.  He  was  no 
mean  antagonist.  As  Jason  sprang  erect, 
the  brute  made  a  terrific  pass  at  him,  just 
as  the  old  man  swung  his  crutches.  There 
was  a  crash,  and  a  snap  like  a  broken  staff, 
and  the  thick  right  arm  of  the  burly  bruiser 
fell  limp  like  a  wet  rope  at  his  side.  Also 
the  crutches  were  smashed,  and  with  noth- 


462  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

ing  to  balance  his  great  weight  but  his  good 
right  leg,  and  with  twelve  men  lashing  out 
at  him  from  as  many  angles,  two  of  them 
college  football  champions,  how  long  could 
he  last? 

But  it  was  Jason  Sands  to  whom  they 
had  carried  the  fight,  and  when  the  Comet 
arrived  on  the  scene  it  was  Jason  Sands 
who  was  carrying  the  fight  to  them !  There 
lay  the  gang  boss,  arm  broken  and  jaw 
smashed.  Silk  hats,  canes  and  pale  faces 
mingled  promiscuously  like  jack-straws 
with  flying  fists  and  arms  within  a  median 
whirlwind  of  desperate  conflict. 

The  old  gladiator,  rejuvenated  with  the 
power  of  deadly  desperation,  fought  his  last 
battle  over  the  scattered  remains  of  his 
dead  wife's  ravaged  bones.  He  was  ter- 
rible and  warlike  as  he  fought  there  for  the 
outraged  honor  of  those  he  loved.  He 
looked  the  very  reincarnation  of  Norsean 
berserker— primal  and  fearless — and  they 
were  falling  before  him  like  tenpins.  The 
Comet  scraped  her  springs  along  the  turf 
among  the  white-stones,  just  as  a  giant  stat- 
ute with  only  one  leg— the  last  on  the  field 
of  strife  left  standing— balanced  at  full 
height,  motionless  and  awful,  his  snowy 
locks  flying  in  the  wind,  pressed  two  broken 
hands  to  a  bloody  forehead  and  fell  like  a 
broken  column  upon  the  bone-cluttered  clay ! 

"Father!  Father!  O  father,  speak  to  me, 
speak,  speak!  Don't  you  see  it  is  I,  Quimby, 


THE   TORCH   OP   REASON.  463 

your  boy?"  cried  the  frantic  son,  falling 
on  the  ground  and  taking  the  blood-stained 
head  tenderly  on  his  lap. 

Everything  possible  was  done  for  Jason 
Sands;  but  he  expired  in  his  son's  arms 
where  he  had  fallen. 

With  every  art  known  to  modern  science 
he  was  treated,  but  the  life  skein  was  un- 
raveled and  they  could  only  partially  revive 
him. 

It  was  a  wonder  that  no  other  man  was 
killed.  But  there  was  work  for  the  Hard- 
hack  Hospital  when  two  automobiles  pulled 
up  with  every  mother's  son  a  subject  for 
treatment,  including  the  two  chauffeurs. 

A  pathetic  and  dramatic  scene  was 
enacted,  when  Ben  Page,  breathless  and 
hatless,  rushed  madly  among  the  fallen 
combatants  vainly  seeking  an  adversary 
with  whom  to  match  his  strength  and 
prowess. 

Holding  true  to  the  trail,  Ben  had  seen 
the  last  of  the  fight,  but  he  had  reached  the 
battleground  too  late.  The  fury  of  him 
was  unhuman!  His  grief  was  complete! 
Wildly  he  sprang  hither  and  thither,  froth- 
ing at  the  mouth  like  a  mad  dog,  as  some 
one  or  another  of  the  hostile  vanquished 
groaned  or  moved.  His  eyes  were  blood- 
shot, and  with  fists  doubled  into  veritable 
mauls,  he  was  a  sight  not  good  to  look 
upon.  He  beheld  his  old  mate  fallen,  and 
the  sight  fairly  crazed  him.  As  the  dying 


464  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

sire  of  the  young  savior  of  his  own  life 
opened  his  eyes  and  whispered  something 
hoarsely,  at  length,  to  his  tearful  son,  Ben 
saw  in  those  eyes  what  he  knew  was  the 
death  glaze,  and  in  his  throat  he  could  hear 
that  unmistakable  rattle. 

As  the  end  came,  quietly,  and  the  old 
tower  lay  prone  and  still  at  last,  Ben  Page 
fell  on  his  knees  beside  him  and  pronounced 
a  solemn  oath.  He  swore  to  devote  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life  to  the  great  cause  of 
Socialism.  Rough  woodsman  that  he  was, 
and  rougher  still  the  speech  of  him,  there 
was  eloquence  and  sincerity  in  that  pledge, 
nevertheless;  and  when  he  had  finished,  it 
was  a  tearful  crew  that  stood  with  heads 
uncovered  while  Quimby  Sands  reverently 
drew  down  the  lids  and  closed  his  father's 
eyes. 

"Here  on  my  bended  knees  'mongst  these 
cold  bones  'n  front  o'  this  yere  dead  but 
onlicked  hero,"  began  the  unlettered  but 
honest  nomad,  "I  solemnly  swear  tue  never 
drink,  smoke  nor  chaw,  nor  tue  rest,  nor 
laff,  nor  cuss,  nor  stop  fightin'  until  this 
onhuman,  ongodly,  God-forbid  and  God- 
damned system  sich  as  robs  children  of 
their  playtime;  robs  homes  of  the  purtiest 
dear  ones;  robs  them  that  has  no  thin'  of 
what  they  aughtter  have,  and  that  robs  the 
graves  of  'em  all,  is  wiped  out  forever!  I 
ain't  much  on  prayer,  nohow;  and  'taint 
my  cut  tue  cringe 'n  crawl,  no  more'n  'twar 


THE    TORCH   OP   REASON.  465 

his'n,  and  I  ain't  gettin'  skittish  'bout  the 
hereafter;  but  I  cal'late  tue  wind  up  this 
yere  by  sayin':  so  help  me,  for  I've  hearn 
o'  sich  lingo  years  ago  and  'low  it's  the 
proper  gab.  I'm  braggin'  some  as  how  I 
ain't  no  coward,  Jase,  and  if  you  could 
speak  you  could  tell  'em  n'o  man  ever  heard 
me  squeal;  but  I'm  agoin'  tue  swear  this 
yere  oath  in  front  o '  you  and  God,  and  if  I 
ever  lay  down  on  it  I  hope  I  may  pan  gravel 
in  the  bum-holes  o'  Hell  'till  the  day  of 
kingdom  come!  Them  low-down  blacklegs 
has  claim- jumped  this  yere  graveyard  and 
committed  murder  on  as  good  a  man  as 
ever  fit  wolves  or  sot  on  a  throne  up  yender ; 
and  if  Heaven  is  hanted  by  the  likes  o' 
them  there  varmints,  it's  a  part  o'  the  same 
shebang,  and  ain't  no  fit  place  for  me 
nohow.  And  now  when  I  say  it,  I  want  tue 
know  if  any  o'  this  outfit's  with  me:  So 
lielp  me  God— Amen!" 

And  each  of  the  Comet's  sad  party  re- 
peated, "Amen!" 

As  the  bereaved  friend  and  now  Comrade 
finished,  his  frame  shook  with  the  quake 
of  deepest  emotion.  He  arose,  weak  and 
staggering.  At  last,  he  had  seen  it  with 
his  own  eyes. 

Leland  Taimerhill's  dream  of  rest  and 
peace  had  vanished ;  and  his  exhumed  body 
was  lying  under  the  roadbed  down  the  ra- 
vine where  it  had  been  dumped  along  with 


4G6  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

other  ballast.  It  were  cheaper,  so,  and 
besides  it  would  earn  dividends ! 

On  Labor  Day,  there  was  a  funeral  and 
an  oration.  The  sad  and  terrible  news  had 
been  flashed  throughout  the  nation,  and  a 
multitude  was  there.  Upon  a  granite  pyre 
in  the  centre  of  the  park  rested,  in  full 
view  of  the  vast  throng,  the  cold  remains 
of  Jason  Sands.  Thousands  of  the  new 
airships  surrounded  the  park,  and  when 
the  funeral  oration  was  begun  by  Quimby 
Sands  that  evening,  their  powerful  light 
rays  spread  out  over  the  woods  and  over 
the  lake,  tinted,  tuned,  and  with  mordant 
auroral  lustre. 

"This  is  the  happiest,  and  the  saddest 
moment  of  my  life!"  Thus  spake  the  young 
giant  oak,  as  he  began  the  funeral  oration 
of  his  fallen  sire  before  him.  "It  is  the 
saddest,  because  it  marks  the  hour  when  I 
shall-  look  for  the  last  time  upon  my 
father's  face;  and  it  is  the  happiest,  for  the 
reason  that  it  heralds  the  beginning  of  the 
end— the  end  of  the  reign  of  hell  on  earth. 

"Look  upon  him,  my  father.  He  was  a 
man.  His  father  was  a  man  and  his  mother 
was  a  woman.  On  the  bountious  bosom 
of  Mother  Nature  they  had  their  habitation ; 
and  they  came  and  went  with  the  freedom 
of  the  birds  and  of  the  wind.  They  planted 
seeds ;  and  they  ate  the  things  that  grew  out 
of  the  earth.  Aggrarians  were  they,  sniffing 
the  pure  ozone  with  the  first  gray  of  dawn ; 


THE    TORCH   OF    REASON.  467 

and  sleeping  like  mountains  when  the  hour 
was  dark,  they  grew  like  trees,  and  like 
trees  they  have  fallen. 

"Jason  Sands  has  come  and  gone;  and 
because  of  his  coming  the  world  doth  smile. 
He  came  with  the  breath  of  the  morning; 
and  he  sleeps  'mid  the  perfume  of  the  night, 
He  arose  and  stood  on  the  mountain  and 
heard  the  soft  whisper  of  love.  Then  he 
obeyed  the  law.  That  law  has  been  repealed ; 
and  to-day  the  dollar  sign  is  ruling  king 
on  a  throne  of  dross.  Love  is  still  in  chains. 

"He  loved  his  fellows,  but  his  fellows 
slew  him.  He  lived  for  the  love  of  life; 
and  he  fought  for  the  love  that  life  gave 
him. 

"The  scion  of  a  long  line  of  hardy  pio- 
neers, he  was  a  giant  and  a  born  rebel.  He 
v.-as  a  rebel  against  injustice,  ignorance,  and 
slavery  in  all  their  thousand-and-one  hor- 
rible forms.  It  was  said  of  him,  by  the 
eminent  poet  and  philosopher,  Walter 
Hurt,  that  he  was  the  'reincarnated  spirit 
of  the  French  Revolution.'  Whereupon 
he  had  replied:  'I  have  rebelled  against 
the  criminal  codes  of  Capitalism's  polit- 
ical, economic,  educational,  social  and  moral 
systems,  and  the  reeking  hag,  Society,  has 
frowned  on  me.  I  cut  myself  loose  from 
the  bonds  of  her  orthodox  apron-strings, 
and  so  I  am  an  ' heretic!'  I  have  dared 
to  speak  my  mind  concerning  the  rights 
of  free-born  citizenship;  and  for  this 


468  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

the  painted  harlot  of  their  Social  Harem 
seeks  to  have  me  ostracized.  I  am  disin- 
herited, starved  and  driven  out  from  my 
own  door.  I  had  the  audacity  to  trace  ths 
printed  page  back  over  the  bloody  battle- 
fields of  their  holocausts,  called  war,  and  to 
delve  into  and  uncover  the  putrid  carnal- 
fests  of  their  alleged  marital  sanctity;  and 
I  flung  the  dripping  clout  of  their  polluting 
hypocrisies  in  their  sniveling  faces.  Is  it 
any  wonder,  then,  that  I  am  an  exile?  Is 
it  not  a  wonder  that  I  am  permitted  to 
live?' 

"But  Jason  Sands  was  born  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  when  hypocracy  of  religious 
faith  gave  respectability  to  social  prostitu- 
tion; when  economic  security  consisted  in 
one's  ability  to  stand  firmly  on  the  slender 
neck  of  a  weaker  brother ;  when  the  aristoc- 
racy of  moral  well-being  was  achieved  only 
by  those  who  could  manage  to  climb  nearest 
the  throne  of  lawful  outlawry,  whose  sym- 
bol was  the  lying  legend,  gripped  in  the 
talons  of  a  baldheaded  bird  of  prey:  'In 
God  We  Trust.'  And  which  brigand  tyr- 
anny reigned  supreme  because  its  slaves 
were  too  ignorant  to  perceive  that  they  were 
slaves ! 

"From  a  phrenological  reading  given  as 
a  demonstration  before  a  class  of  5,000  stu- 
dents at  a  college  of  mental  science  at 
Bryn  Mohr,  Washington,  by  Prof.  Knox, 
his  chart  read :  Mental-motive ;  aggressive- 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  469 

ness;  perceptive  faculties  leading;  mechan- 
ics; art;  poetry;  literature;  actor;  public 
speaker ;  author ;  organizer,  teacher,  etc.  In 
any  and  all  of  which  he  should  have 
achieved  perfection  and  success ;  but  having 
been  born  in  the  nineteenth  century  under 
Capitalism,  all  these  fine  qualities  and  nat- 
ural characteristics  were  so  much  merchan- 
dise, he  told  Prof.  Knox,  and  subject  to  the 
fluctuations  of  market  values.  They  were 
assets  only  for  commercial  exploitation,  and 
negotiable  only  to  usurers  in  time  of  great 
feasting  and  waste  called  prosperity.  Tal- 
ent was  bought  and  sold  like  harness  leather 
and  votes;  and  genius  was  drowned  out  in 
the  sweat  of  poverty  and  toil. 

"This  nature  man  quarreled  with  a  civil- 
ization which  scared  the  race  through  the 
world  with  the  Ghost  of  Starvation  in  life, 
and  the  fear  of  damnation  ever  afterwards. 
In  a  world  of  sunshine  and  plenty,  he  could 
see  no  sane  reason  why  ninety  and  nine 
must  perish  miserably  that  one  might  live 
idly. 

"While  speaking  on  the  streets  of  St. 
Louis  he  was  set  upon  and  clubbed  by  the 
uniformed  thugs  called  policemen  of  that 
'hoty'  city.  In  answer  to  a  question  before 
the  official  Thug  Judge  next  morning,  he 
said :  'I  must  speak  out,  I  can  look  no  longer 
with  complacency  and  high-browed  uncon- 
cern upon  the  garbage-heaps  of  human 
wreckage  strewn  throughout  the  land.  The 


470  THE    TORCH   OF   REASON. 

scrap-piles  of  wornout  working  men,  women 
and  children,  too  old  or  useless  for  profit- 
able service  and  therefore  no  longer  sale- 
able, are  thrown  out  on  the  industrial  dump 
to  starve.  It  is  a  crying  disgrace,  and.  a 
shame  to  any  nation  prating  of  civilization. 
These  people  with  red  blood  in  their  veins 
are  a  part  of  me  and  I  am  a  part  of  them. 
Their  fight  is  my  fight  and  my  fight  theirs ! ' 

"For  this  fine  display  of  obstreperous 
assumption,  he  was  fined  for  contempt  of 
court  and  sentenced  to  thirty  days  on  the 
chain  gang. 

"Yes,  my  father,  Jason  Sands,  doing  the 
lockstep  with  criminals  and  inebriates  for 
having  the  audacity  to  raise  his  voice  in 
protest  at  the  wrongs  of  his  f  ellowmen ! 

"He  was  sensible  to  the  injustice  of  a 
civilization  that  failed  to  civilize.  It  was 
the  uncivil  that  ruled,  seeking  to  make  civil 
and  meek  the  outraged  manhood  that  dared 
rebel  against  such  official  tyranny.  He  was 
quick  to  pick  flaws  in  a  society  weighted 
down  with  creeds  and  screeds  which  harped 
of  '  peace  on  earth  and  good  will  among 
men,'  while  fattening  off  the  blighted  lives 
of  its  poor.  He  was  horrified  at  sight  of 
an  aristrocracy  of  inherited  stolen  goods, 
drinking  the  blood  of  unborn  generations 
from  the  Skull  of  Legalized  Prostitution, 
and  cramming  Truth  and  Progress  back 
into  the  teeth  of  Oblivion  with  the  mailed 
fist  of  its  pandering  executives. 


THE   TORCH   OF   REASON.  471 

"It  did  not  take  Mm  forty  years  to  see 
that  there  was  something  wrong  when  those 
who  did  all  the  work  owned  nothing,  and 
others  who  did  no  work  owned  everything. 
It  was  such  a  system  that  stepped  between 
him  and  love,  and  which  broke  and  crushed 
his  home.  It  was  this  dog-in-the-manger 
system  which  stood  between  him  and  life, 
tying  his  willing  hands  and  dogging  him 
over  the  earth  like  an  alien  and  an  out- 
cast. And  it  was  this  system  which  robbed 
me  of  my  childhood  and  my  birthright. 

"It  was  this  system— bear  with  me  when 
I  say  system,  for  I  would  have  you  know 
that  it  were  not  men,  but  the  system— 
which  pursued  my  mother  to  her  grave  to 
despoil  her  terminant  dust  of  its  peaceful 
rest. 

"My  father  was  not  above  his  class.  He 
was  of  his  class— the  class  in  whose  sweat 
and  blood  and  tears  this  earth  is  steeped. 
His  was  the  arm  of  a  Sampson;  his  brain 
was  a  volcanic  battery  surcharged  with  the 
voltage  of  the  heavens;  but  his  heart  was 
the  heart  of  an  Niobe.  When  danger  men- 
aced, be  became  a  warrior  and  struck  in 
battle;  but  his  heart  bled  before  the  grief- 
struck  visage  of  a  weeping  child.  Out  of 
defeat  he  wrung  victory ;  and  while  cowards 
whined  their  patrimonious  supplications 
and  crawled  belly  down  in  the  dust  of  obei- 
sance, he  stood  erect  and.  defiant,  hurling 
condemnation  and  challenge  into  their  cita- 


472  THE    TORCH    OF   REASON. 

dels  of  predatory  wealth  and  power.  When 
they  fell  upon  him  with  overwhelming  num- 
bers to  destroy  him,  he  would  arise  from 
their  vengeance,  crushed  but  undefeated; 
and  when  two  months  hence  the  glad  tidings 
of  a  Socialist  victory  heralds  the  birth  of 
the  Co-operative  Commonwealth  in  Amer- 
ica, the  honor  of  that  victory  in  no  small 
measure  shall  belong  to  such  as  he,  who 
dared  to  stand  alone. 

"Jason  Sands  early  saw  that  there  was 
something  wrong  in  a  society  divided 
against  itself  and  living  in  two  houses.  He 
perceived  that  the  two  houses  were  built, 
one  upon  the  other  and  that  all  the  heft 
was  at  the  top !  He  shuddered  at  the  sight, 
for  he  knew  that  such  a  house  could 
not  long  endure.  They  who  lived  in  the 
upper  house,  spent  their  days  in  idleness 
and  debauchery ;  while  the  multitudes  gasp- 
ing in  filth  and  poverty  at  their  feet,  idling 
never,  possessed  naught  to  call  their  own! 

"Graded  with  many  grades  were  these 
two  houses.  On  the  lower  strata  groveling 
rat-like  among  the  sewers,  was  the  grade 
that  laid  the  underpinning  of  the  lesser 
edifice  with  the  layer  just  above  boiling  the 
flesh  from  its  bones  in  the  vacuum-like 
basements,  washing  the  soiled  linen  of  the 
fine  ladies  at  the  top.  They,  the  mudsills, 
were  satisfied  to  inhale  all  the  germ-laden 
pollution  of  the  nasty  odors  of  these  use- 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  473 

less  swine  for  a  shameful  dab  at  a  more 
shameful  chance  existence  of  toil. 

"Don't  criticize  me  for  my  seeming  pas- 
sion, nor  censor  me  that  my  manner  of 
speech  is  ungentle ;  the  wrongs  of  this  rob- 
ber society  may  not  be  whispered  gently  in 
honied  phrases,  while  nostrils  clog  with  the 
fumes  of  Hell. 

"  Many-strata  'd  and  many  storied  was 
this  bi-housed  society.  Each  respective 
strata  and  grade  was  crafted  and  segre- 
gated, and  all  interwoven,  intermingled, 
intertangled  and  interdependent;  but  all 
divided  on  the  one  vital  issue— life.  More- 
over, and  O  the  pity  of  it!  O  the  shame 
of  it !  O  the  crime  of  it !  The  nether  house, 
the  house  of  meanest  slaves,  passed  all  their 
labor  product  up  to  the  strata  of  the  sub- 
cellar  slaves;  and  in  turn  the  sub-cellar 
slaves  turned  it  all  over  to  the  cellar  slaves, 
with  their  own  product  added.  Next  the 
cellar  slaves  lifted  it,  swollen  by  their  own 
creation,  up  to  the  grade  above,  and  so  on 
all  the  way  to  the  dizzy  height  where  the 
rich  idlers  squandered  it  wickedly  on  the 
four  winds  of  licentious  extravagance.  Of 
course  where  the  wealth  was  piled  so  high 
at  the  feet  of  their  masters,  a  few  of  the 
meanest  crumbs  fell  down.  These  the  nether 
stratas  devoured  greedily  like  scavengers, 
blessing  God  for  such  crumbs,  which  they 
lauded  as  'Christian  charity!' 


474  THE   TORCH   OF   REASON. 

"This  my  father  called  the  'Bi-house  of 
Capitalism.'  And  Capitalism  it  was,  and 
still  is,  here  in  America.  But  its  doom  is 
sealed!  It  is  still  raging  and  rending  and 
sating  its  barbaric  lust  upon  the  heart- 
broken wrecks  of  its  ruthless  reign  of  ruin. 
It  is  the  system  of  profit-sharing  among 
those  who  do  nothing  profitable.  It  is  the 
system  which  takes  from  those  who  'have 
not,  and  give  to  those  who  have!  It  is  the 
process  whereby  those  burdened  with  fat, 
eat  fat  from  the  bones  of  the  lean;  and 
those  who  sweat  not,  drink  the  sweat  from 
the  faces  of  the  weary  and  heavy  laden.  It 
is  the  instrument  with  which  the  gods  of 
the  universe  are  highwayed  out  of  the  world 
they  have  created,  for  the  privilege  of  cre- 
ating more  worlds  out  of  which  to  be  again 
highwayed!  It  is  a  political,  economic,  in- 
dustrial, commercial,  military,  social,  and 
damnable  system  of  legalized  illegality; 
illegal  legality;  lawful  outlaivry,  and  the 
criminal  quintessence  of  unspeakable  crim- 
inology!" 

"IT  IS  A  SYSTEM  OF  MASTERS  AND 
SLAVES!" 

He  paused  to  let  it  soak  in. 

"Masters  and  slaves!  Masters  and  slaves! 
A  system  of  master  and  slave!" 

His  hearers  mouthed  the  words,  silently, 
and  awfully.  It  were  not  men,  he  showed 
them,  but  the  system  that  was  at  fault. 
It  was  responsible  for  every  human  woe. 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  475 

"There  lies  a  victim  of  the  system,"  he 
resumed.  "Behold  its  bloody  handiwork! 
At  the  age  of  but  a  boy  he  died  an  old 
man!  When  Love  gave  birth  to  Jason 
Sands,  the  flowers  breathed  their  perfume 
into  his  nostrils  and  the  Muses  smiled. 
When  he  died,  a  lute  was  riven  in  the  great 
orchestra  of  the  Cosmos. 

He  scorned  to  be  a  master;  but  he  strove 
to  be  a  man.  He  builded  wherein  that 
others  might  dwell;  but  the  system  gave 
him  'not  where  to  lay  his  head!'  He  was 
the  strongest  man;  but  the  system  was 
stronger  than  he.  He  strove  to  lift  his  fel- 
lows up,  the  system  struck  him  down !  His 
heart  beat  not  within  his  breast,  but  in  the 
abode  of  the  poor ;  and  when  his  fists  struck 
out,  the  blow  always  fell  hardest  upon  his 
own  heart. 

"It  is  not  I,  speaking  to  you  from  this 
eminence.  The  lips  are  mine  today ;  but  the 
voice  you  hear  is  the  voice  of  my  father. 
Upon  this  granite  pyre  rests  the  silent  re- 
mains of  a  man.  See  the  hoary  head! 
Marvel  at  the  great  statue!  Think  of  the 
unknown  strength,  now  used  up  in  the  mills 
of  toil.  He  was  forty-six  years  old  when 
the  end  came,  and  under  a  sane  arrange- 
ment of  human  society  he  would  have  lived 
a  hundred  years. 

"It  is  not  Jason  Sands  who  lies  still  upon 
that  stone!  It  is  the  Son  of  Toil!  How 


476  THE    TORCH    OF    REASON. 

many  are  there  among  you  who  knew  him  ? 
His  name  was  Legion." 

As  the  son  ceased  speaking  and  stepped 
down  from  his  father's  side,  the  Comet  shot 
up  her  consuming  pillar;  the  spectators 
were  warned  back,  and  down  came  the  elec- 
tro-radium ray.  It  had  been  Jason's  last 
request  as  he  lay  in  the  throes  of  death  on 
his  son's  lap  in  the  graveyard,  that  he  be 
cremated  with  the  Ray.  In  the  grave  there 
was  no  resit,  and  so  his  will  was  obeyed. 
Stepping  aboard  the  airship,  the  scientist 
gave  the  signal!  There  was  a  flash,  and 
the  body,  vanished,  and  the  stone  vanished, 
as  his  voice  rang  clear  from  above: 

"My  father,  scion  of  the  Brave,  child 
of  the  goddess  of  Nature,  victim  of  a 
thief  regime,  personification  of  Capitalism's 
disinherited  poor,  thy  toil  and  thy  sor- 
rows are  no  more.  From  gas  thou  art,  and 
unto  gas  I  now  return  thee!" 

As  the  Comet  arose  to  go,  she  threw  a 
double  picture  on  a  black  cloud  with  her 
powerful  projectoscope,  a  mile  in  circum- 
ference. It  was  the  picture  of  a  handsome 
young  couple  in  ancient  dress.  The  one 
broad  of  shoulder  and  with  the  eye  of  one 
who  looks  into  the  future ;  the  other  slender 
of  form  and  fair  of  face.  It  could  be  seen 
that  they  were  sweethearts,  and  that  she 
loved  him ;  for  her  white  fingers  were  toying 
with  his  curly  hair.  It  was  the  double  pic- 


"And  where  the  frog-pond  chorus  rose  dreamily  o'er  the  sweet- 
scented  woodland,  as  it  had  done  for  Erma  and  Jason 
in  the  days  of  Auld  lang  syne,  she  said :     'Yes, 
dear  one,'  when  he  whispered,  'Ray.'  " 


THE    TORCH   OF   REASON.  477 

hire  of  Erma  and  Jason,  taken  on  their 

wedding  day. 

*     #     #     # 

A  year  came  and  went.  The  Presiden- 
tial election  of  1916  was  a  glorious  event 
of  history.  It  was  Labor  Day  once  again. 
From  every  flagstaff  streamed  a  silken  ban- 
ner—the blood-red  flag  of  Socialism. 

Down  the  White  House  steps  a  tall,  gaunt 
figure  came  and  joined  in  the  mighty  pa- 
rade. There  was  a  broad  smile  upon  the 
love-lit  face,  but  his  crown  was  high  and 
bald.  They  knew  him.  For  their  "  'Gene'' 
was  an  old  Comrade. 

The  picnic  in  the  park  had  ended  and 
the  throng  was  going  home,  when  a  beau- 
tiful young  woman  with  cornsilk  blonde 
hair,  wound  two  small  arms  about  a  great 
strong  one,  raised  two  moist  blue  eyes  to 
meet  two  darker  hazel  ones,  and  two  forms 
walked  peacefully  among  the  wild  flowers 
through  the  gathering  twilight  and  into  the 
promising  future. 

As  the  shadows  came  gently  falling  with 
the  perfumed  meadow  mists,  slender  white 
fingers  stole  fondly  through  thick  auburn 
curls;  and  where  the  frog-pond  chorus 
rose  dreamily  o'er  the  sweet-scented  wood- 
land as  it  had  done  for  Erma  and  Jason 
in  the  days  of  Auld  lang  syne,  she  said: 
"Yes,  dear  one,"  when  he  whispered, 
"Ray." 

APOGEE. 


AGENTS  WANTED 

We  want  live  men  and 
women,  boys  and  girls, 
to  act  as  agents  and 
distributers  of  our  pub- 
lications. Earn  a  liberal 
commission  while  work- 
ing for  the  greatest 
cause  that  ever  ani- 
mated the  race. 

The  Socialist  Army 
never  sleeps.  Be  a  sol- 
dier in  the  great  social 
revolution.  Cash  paid 
for  faithful  hustlers. 

May  we  count  you  an  advance 
agent  of  the  great  co-operative 
commonwealth? 

We  have  no  time  to  lose,  the 
enemy  is  marching  on  ! 

The  Torch  of  Reason  Publishers 

3944  Spring  Grove  Avenue  ::   Cincinnati,  Ohio 


Songs!  Songs!  Songs! 

By  the  Author  of  The  Torch  of  Reason 

(Words  and  music,  regular  sheet  music  size) 

"Too  Old" 

The  song  of  the  "age  limit."  Beautiful,  but 
tearfully  sad.  This  is  a  true  story  in  lyric  and 
melody.  Written  out  of  the  life  of  one  of  cap- 
italism's worn-out  wage  slaves.  Price,  25c. 

"When  Your  Hair  is  Like  the  Snow" 

Also  sentimental,  beautiful,  and  a  true  story 
told  in  tenderest  terms  and  aimed  at  the 
bloody  hell  called  war.  Price,  25c. 

"Are  They  Going  to  Hang  My  Papa?" 

This  song  was  written  while  William  D.  Hay- 
wood  was  languishing  in  the  Idaho  peniten- 
tiary. It  is  one  of  the  most  inspiring  and 
soul-stirring  pieces  of  music  ever  composed. 
This  revolutionary  song  played  no  mean  part 
in  arousing  public  opinion  in  Haywood's 
behalf.  This  piece  of  music  is  no  longer  for 
sale,  but  one  copy  will  be  given  away  free  with 
every  order  for  music  as  a  souvenir  of  a  great 
working  class  victory  for  right  against  might. 

The  three  above-named  songs — 
words  and  music — will  be  mailed 
to  one  address,  all  for 

The  Torch  of  Reason  Publishers 

3944  Spring  Grove  Avenue,  Cincinnati,  Ohio 


iii  «i«  inn  mil  mil  (III,,, 
A     000105213 


